


Rescue Me Tonight

by superhoney



Series: Regency Romance [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: (Ish) - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Regency, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom Dean, Brief Threats of Violence, Charlie Bradbury & Dean Winchester Friendship, Historical Inaccuracy, Lord Castiel, M/M, Overly Elaborate Revenge Schemes, Past Dean/Other(s), Prostitute Dean, Referenced Homelessness, Referenced Past Dub-Con, Referenced Past Underage Prostitution, Rimming, Romantic Drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-28 16:24:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 40,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11421717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superhoney/pseuds/superhoney
Summary: In order to secure his chance at a better life, he’ll have to ruin the best man he’s ever known.When Dean first hears the proposal, he fears it’s a joke: he’ll be paid to seduce one of the most well-respected bachelors in London, Lord Castiel Milton, and then break his heart. But Lord Castiel’s enemies are ruthless men, and they’ll stop at nothing to see him humbled, including hiring Dean to play the role of a lifetime. Transforming himself from a lowly prostitute to a well-bred country lord won’t be easy, but if all goes according to plan, Dean will finally be free from the life he despises.He never expected to fall in love along the way.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my entry for the Destiel Harlequin Challenge, and it was an absolute delight to write. I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> A few notes before we get started:
> 
> \-- I did some interesting research for this, and then threw most of it out the window. This is very loosely historical, in that there are carriages and breeches and people call each other “my lord” a lot, but naming conventions aren’t as formalized and oh, there’s also no period-typical homophobia and yes, marriage equality is a thing. Because I said so.  
> \-- Please be aware of the tags for references to bad things in Dean’s past, but also be aware most of them are references only. They inform his character and some of his inner monologues but are not presented in detail in this story. 
> 
> Thank you to Anna, personal cheerleader and beta extraordinaire, to the hive-mind of the Tropefest chat for helping choose a title, and to the mods of this challenge for putting this all together.

_London, early 1800s_

This is quite possibly the most outlandish thing anyone has ever asked of Dean. And with the work he does, he’s accustomed to outlandish requests.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he says, keeping his eyes downcast and his voice soft. “I don’t understand.”

It’s one of the most important rules: never question the one who pays you. So Dean centers his own confusion rather than their lack of clarity, and generally avoids giving offence. He dislikes downplaying his own intelligence, but it’s only one layer of the performance he gives every time someone comes to his room. 

The well-dressed man standing in front of him makes a frustrated noise and turns to his companion. “I thought you said he was clever,” he mutters.

Lord Zachariah sighs and attempts to explain their proposal to Dean again. “It’s quite simple, really. We are willing to pay you a sizeable sum to masquerade as a well-born young man, seduce Lord Castiel Milton and then, at a time of our choosing, break his heart and ruin him completely.” 

Dean knows Lord Zachariah. He doesn’t seek Dean’s company, but rather cycles through several of the girls at the brothel. From what they report, he’s generally a simple, straightforward sort of client. Why on Earth would he suddenly ask such a complicated thing of Dean?

“Forgive me,” he says slowly, looking between the two of them. “But what happens to me once I leave Lord Castiel?”

“That’s none of our concern,” the other man begins, but Lord Zachariah holds up a hand to interrupt him. 

“Uriel, please,” he says under his breath. Turning back to Dean, he offers an oily smile that is likely meant to be reassuring. “The sum you receive from us upon completion of this task should be more than enough to cover the cost of housing for some time. You can start a new life, Dean. Get out of this den of iniquity and go wherever you wish, do whatever you please.”

Dean’s heart leaps in his chest. A new life-- isn’t that what everyone in this filthy city dreams of? He could walk away from this house, from the people who come here seeking pleasure in his bed. He could learn a new trade, something honourable. Maybe he could even find--

He stops himself before he finishes that thought. He must be reasonable. He must not allow himself to be swept up in his fantasies before he even knows all the details of this scheme. 

“How would I go about meeting Lord Castiel, let alone making him fall in love with me?” he asks. He’s heard the name before, and from all reports, Lord Castiel is an honourable man. Not the sort who visits tawdry brothels or spends any time in the poorer areas of London.

Lord Zachariah and Uriel exchange pleased looks, then settle themselves into the two small chairs against the wall of Dean’s cramped room. He sits on the edge of the bed, hands clasped tightly before him.

“I know you’ve spent a number of hours in the company of well-born men,” Lord Zachariah says. “I think you should be able to mimic our manners with relative ease.”

“We will provide you with suitable clothing, of course,” Uriel adds, a slight sneer on his face as he looks over Dean’s plain attire, “and you will pose as a cousin of Zachariah’s from the country, recently arrived to London to make connections and perhaps, find yourself a match.”

Dean sincerely doubts this will work. The high-born are obsessed with lineage and familial connections. Surely, someone will notice that Lord Zachariah has never mentioned his cousin before. 

“And if someone discovers the truth?” he asks.

“They won’t,” Lord Zachariah assures him. “Our own names will protect you. No one would dare accuse me of lying about something like this, and any errors you make will simply be blamed on your country upbringing.”

“And of course, if someone does discover the truth before your task is complete, you will not receive your reward,” Uriel adds. “So it is in your best interest to commit yourself fully to your performance, my young friend. I’m sure you’re quite accustomed to being whatever is asked of you at a given time.” His tone is cold, and Dean shudders. He does not like this man in the slightest.

Dean is yet a young man. He’s aged beyond his years, a difficult life leaving him bitter and hardened, but perhaps it is not too late for him. If he does this one thing, his freedom is guaranteed.

No more nights on his hands and knees, waiting for some sweaty, drunk mess of a man to finish and roll away from him. No more sleeping away his days in this tiny room that always smells of sex, no matter how many times he tries to freshen it. No more wondering if each night will be his last, if someone will turn violent like he’s heard in some many stories whispered in the halls. 

“We don’t have time for your hesitation,” Uriel snaps. “There are five other pretty young boys in this disgusting place alone who would be more than willing to do as we require.”

Dean ignores him and looks at Lord Zachariah instead. “Why are you doing this?” he asks. It’s none of his business, and he should not be so direct, but he feels he must know. 

Lord Zachariah’s eyes darken, and Dean curls in on himself instinctively, but his anger is not directed at Dean. “Because Lord Castiel Milton has grievously wronged us, and we will see him suffer.”

Dean wonders why they don’t simply kill him instead, but he supposes it’s more complicated for the wealthy to accomplish such things. People would notice if a wealthy lord in the prime of his life was suddenly murdered. Leaving him in emotional distress and with a tarnished reputation is far more subtle and far more cruel.

Dean does not wish to be cruel, particularly to someone who has never wronged him. It is not in his nature. But it is in his nature to survive, to do whatever is necessary in order to face one more day in this world. After all, it’s how he ended up here.

No, he does not wish to be cruel. But if it means a chance at securing his freedom, at walking away from this life, he thinks he can manage it. 

So he squares his shoulders and nods. “I accept.”

“Good lad,” Lord Zachariah says, and despite himself, Dean sits up straighter at his pleased tone. “Now, as to the specifics.”

Now that he’s agreed to this plan, Dean is struck by the realization of a potential flaw. “Have you spoken to Crowley concerning this?” If the brothel owner refuses to let Dean go, the entire venture will fall apart before it begins.

“We have,” Uriel assures him. “He has already agreed to your involvement in this operation.”

Dean wonders how much they had to pay Crowley to convince him to part with Dean, who has been a steady source of income for him for years now. These two must truly hate Lord Castiel, to put so much effort and money into his downfall. 

“Where am I to live?” he asks next. “If anyone were to see me returning here, surely they would be suspicious.”

“You’ll stay with me, as befitting a cousin from the country,” Lord Zachariah says smoothly. “No one will find any reason to doubt our tale.”

The prospect of spending so much time under Lord Zachariah’s watchful eye is unpleasant, but better him than Uriel. Dean nods. “When do we begin?”

“There is a ball at Lady Talbot’s next week. It will be the perfect opportunity to introduce you to society. I am assured that Lord Castiel will make an appearance, and once we have secured an introduction, the rest will be in your hands.”

“And until then?”

Uriel scoffs. “You’ll remain here until we need you.”

Dean swallows his disappointment. Some small part of him had hoped he might make his escape today. One more week, he tells himself. It’s not so long a time. And with the promise of freedom ahead of him, surely it will pass quickly.

“Very well,” he says. 

Lord Zachariah drops a hand on his shoulder, the weight and warmth of it making Dean uncomfortable, but he forces himself not to react. “We will summon you when it’s time,” Zachariah says.

With a final nod, they sweep out of the room. Dean drops back onto the bed and exhales shakily. He rubs his hand over his face, replaying their conversation in his mind. 

Will he be able to charm Lord Castiel into falling in love with him? Uriel and Zachariah chose him specifically, so Lord Castiel’s tastes must run at least partially to men. Dean is certain he can make nearly any man desire him. But to love him is another matter entirely. A matter of heart and soul rather than mere body. 

And that is something Dean has no experience with. Once upon a time, he had a family who cared about him-- a mother who sang to him as a baby, a father who smiled and laughed as he grew, a younger brother who admired him. But then his mother passed away, taken by a fever that should not have claimed the life of one so young. And his father turned to drink and dice, a lifestyle that saw him in the ground before Dean was quite sixteen years old. 

With no one left but his brother, Dean did his best to protect what remained of his family, but London could be a cold and unforgiving place, especially for two orphaned boys. Until one day, Dean woke up and Sam was simply gone, no trace of him left behind. To this day, he doesn’t know what happened to his brother: if he died, if he was taken, if he simply grew tired of Dean and left to seek his fortune on his own. 

Crowley found him two days later, grief-stricken and miserable, desperately trying to obtain a position as a stablehand in one of the great lord’s houses. Dean was wary of Crowley at first, and rightfully so, but what other choice did he have? Sixteen years old and alone in the world, he listened to Crowley’s proposition, and accepted it. 

It has been six years since that day. Dean knows how to please a man. How to pretend to be pleased in turn, how to convince them to return over and over again, to seek him out above others. But it isn’t love, what happens in this bed. 

The task ahead is daunting, to be sure. But Dean will see it done. He will make Lord Castiel Milton love him, and then he will break his heart.

And then, finally, Dean will be free.

His thoughts are interrupted by a knock at his door, quickly followed by a rough-looking man in his late forties. Dean swallows and stands, summoning his best smile.

“Good day, sir,” he says. He doesn’t recognize his visitor, and there’s always a tense moment with someone new. Will they hurt him? Will they run off without proper payment? Or will they become a regular visitor the way so many of them do?

“I’m not paying you to talk,” the man says, and that’s all Dean needs to hear. He begins removing his clothes with the ease of long practice, clinging desperately to the notion that he has only one more week of this.

As he settles back onto the bed, naked and shivering in the drafty room, his only thought is that he must not fail.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean pulls uncomfortably at the collar of his new coat. He’s unaccustomed to this level of finery, and he hopes his discomfort won’t show. He needs to be perfect tonight. 

Tonight, he is to meet Lord Castiel for the first time.

Alfie steps forward and shyly adjusts the coat across Dean’s shoulders. It feels much better afterwards, and Dean offers the young servant a grateful smile. Alfie blushes, and Dean wonders how much he knows, or guesses, about Dean’s sudden appearance in Lord Zachariah’s stately manor. If anything, the servants likely think Dean is a paramour of Zachariah’s. The thought makes Dean shudder, but better them believing that than guessing the truth.

“I believe you’re ready, my lord,” Alfie offers. “Shall I inform Lord Zachariah?”

It takes Dean a moment to realize Alfie is addressing him. He’s been called many things in his life, but ‘my lord’ has never been one of them.

“Thank you, Alfie,” he says. “Yes, I’m ready.”

He doesn’t glance at his reflection in the polished mirror as he leaves his new chamber. He’s afraid he’ll see all his history writ clearly upon his face, just as the other guests at Lady Talbot’s ball will do. He does his best to remain calm and composed as he descends the staircase and meets Lord Zachariah, who seems satisfied with his appearance, judging by his approving nod as he inspects Dean from head to foot. 

“Now, remember,” Zachariah says as they step up into the carriage, “you arrived in London two days ago. You are a cousin of mine on my mother’s side, and your family home is in Derbyshire. You have two older brothers, so little chance of inheriting the family estate, and have come to the city to seek your fortune.”

Dean nods, committing the information to memory. He is good with remembering details, at least.

“If anyone other than Lord Castiel seems inclined to pursue you, be polite but firm,” Zachariah instructs. “We don’t want you to make enemies, but you must be available for him and him alone.”

Dean almost laughs, but thinks better of it. He has difficulty believing any of the lords and ladies who attend these sorts of balls will be interested in him, but he supposes he looks like one of them in this attire, and he knows his face is his greatest gift. 

“Will you introduce me straightaway?” he inquires.

“No,” Zachariah replies immediately. Clearly, he’s given this a good deal of thought. “We’ll allow some time to pass. If we’re very lucky, he may notice you on his own. If not, we’ll find a way to bring the two of you together once the dancing begins.”

Dean bites his lip. “I don’t know the dances,” he admits. Is this charade to be over before it even begins? Surely the other guests will be suspicious if he cannot follow the steps properly.

But Zachariah dismisses his concerns with a flap of his hand. “Another thing we may blame on your country upbringing,” he says. “You’re clever, you’ll learn to mimic the patterns quickly enough.”

He has a great deal of faith in Dean, considering how important this plan is to him. Dean looks out the window, taking in the imposing homes as they pass, gathering his courage for the night ahead. This encounter may be the most important of them all, first impressions holding so much weight.

At least he looks the part. He runs his hand lightly over the embroidery on his coat, admiring the softness of the fabric and the way it clings perfectly to his body. Dean has never worn such fine clothing in his life.

His thoughts are interrupted by the carriage rolling to a stop in front of yet another grand home, crowds of well-dressed guests streaming up the stairs.

As he’s about to step down, Zachariah halts him with a hand on his elbow. “Do not disappoint me, Dean,” he warns. “Think about what will happen if you fail.”

Dean pauses, imagining going back to Crowley’s brothel in defeat. Returning to his tiny room, forcing smiles and sighs for his regular clients night after night until eventually his attractiveness fades and he’s left with nothing at all. 

He will not allow that to happen. He lifts his chin and meets Zachariah’s eyes. “I will not fail.”

Zachariah nods sharply. “Very well. Let us begin.”

They present their names to the footman at the door and are ushered inside with a sweeping bow. Dean does his best not to stare too blatantly, but he supposes any lack of manners on his part will be attributed to his country upbringing, which eases the pressure slightly. Lady Talbot’s residence is lavish and lovely, the lights reflecting on the jewels worn by the guests as they mingle in the spacious rooms.

Dean glances carefully around the room, hoping he doesn’t see any familiar faces. If one of his frequent customers should be here, or even someone who seeks the attentions of one of the others at Crowley’s, his lies will be exposed immediately. Fortunately, he doesn’t recognize any of the guests other than Zachariah and Uriel, who nods at them from across the room but doesn’t approach. 

“Lord Zachariah,” someone says from behind them. “I don’t believe I know your companion.”

Dean turns to see a rather striking young woman eyeing him with interest. “Lady Talbot,” Zachariah murmurs, offering her a slight bow. Dean does the same, attempting to match his exact angle so he doesn’t unconsciously give offense. “May I present my cousin, Mr. Dean Winchester.”

Lady Talbot extends a graceful hand towards him, and Dean bows over it as he’s seen others do before. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Zachariah nod slightly. So far, so good. 

“Enchanted,” Dean murmurs, looking up at Lady Talbot shyly, just as a young man from the country might upon meeting such a famous belle of London society. “I’m delighted to be here tonight at your kind invitation.”

Her smile is slightly sharp. “Oh, we’re pleased to have you as well,” she says. “And for your first time in London?”

“Yes, my lady,” Dean says. “My first ball as well.”

“Charming,” she murmurs. “Just charming. You’ll have quite the task keeping the unattached guests away from this one, Lord Zachariah.”

Dean flushes faintly, but Zachariah just laughs, a pleased grin on his face. “Oh, I’m sure I will,” he agrees. 

With a little wave and a last lingering look at Dean, Lady Talbot moves away to greet another of her guests, and Dean lets out a sigh of relief. 

“You did well,” Zachariah whispers. “Just continue on that way, and everything will go according to plan, I’m sure of it.”

They make a slow tour of the room, chatting idly with several other guests. Dean speaks softly, keeps his eyes wide, and errs on the side of being overly formal in his greetings, and no one appears to suspect that he’s a whore from the other side of the city and not a young lord from Derbyshire. He accepts several invitations to dance, but not all of them-- as Zachariah instructed, he must leave room for Lord Castiel, should he ever make an appearance.

The steady stream of guests has slowed to a trickle, and though he does his best to conceal it, Dean can tell that Lord Zachariah is becoming agitated. “He should be here by now,” Zachariah mutters. “He’s always punctual. I don’t think he has the imagination to be late.”

Dean frowns at this assessment of Lord Castiel’s character, but files it away for future reference. The more he knows about his target, the better. 

He continues making conversation with Lord Joshua, a rather kindly old man who seems keenly interested in Dean’s views on the ball. Dean keeps his remarks positive, adding a generous dash of wonderment to his voice as he explains how different it is than their usual country gatherings at home. Joshua smiles and reminisces about his own youth and his first ball, and Dean is oddly absorbed in the conversation. 

He’s startled by Zachariah’s elbow digging sharply into his side. “He’s here,” Zachariah hisses, jerking his head towards the entranceway.

Dean excuses himself from his conversation with Lord Joshua and directs his attention to the front of the room, craning his neck for a better view of the man he intends to seduce and then ruin.

His first impression is of dark hair above broad shoulders, as the rest of his body is obscured by other guests standing between them. Then Lord Castiel turns, and Dean catches a glimpse of his profile. Even at this distance, he see the perfect angle of his jaw and cheekbones, and Dean’s chest suddenly feels tight.

He never anticipated Lord Castiel being quite so attractive.

It should make his mission easier, at least. He won’t have to try as hard to be charming. 

“Don’t stare,” Zachariah hisses at him, and Dean immediately tears his gaze away. “You’ll get your chance to work your wiles soon enough.”

“Yes, my lord,” Dean mumbles. “Apologies.”

He hates himself for saying it, but it’s all part of the act. The older, sophisticated, London-bred cousin chastising his younger country cousin for being rude and uncouth. Dean resolves to be more discreet. He dislikes having to obey Lord Zachariah enough as it is, and having to apologize for tiny errors is even worse.

Fortunately, the dancing begins soon afterwards, and Dean is too busy focusing on not stumbling or stepping on his partner’s toes to look for Lord Castiel. His first dance is with Miss Hester Brookside, a rather cool young woman who nevertheless looks at Dean with an interest he recognizes all too well. It would be best, he thinks, to not dance with her again, lest she think her attention is welcome.

Next he dances with Sir Inias, who is polite and serious and quite careful as he leads the dance. He’s courteous enough, but Dean suspects he dances more out of obligation than any real desire. It’s relaxing for Dean, who allows himself to be led through the patterns, trusting that Inias knows what he is doing. 

Inias bows stiffly over Dean’s hand at the end of their dance, but doesn’t request another. This leaves Dean with some free time before his next partner, so he makes his way back to where Lord Zachariah is standing against the wall with some other older unmarried gentlemen. 

“Did you enjoy the dancing, cousin?” Zachariah asks. He even manages to sound like he truly cares, which is quite the feat.

“I did, cousin,” Dean replies. “I am glad to be included so quickly.”

The men laugh gently, and then Zachariah excuses them and steers Dean towards the refreshments table at the other side of the room. “Lord Castiel is there,” he mutters as they walk, smiling and nodding at acquaintances along the way. “Can you find a way to attract his attention?”

Dean considers this for a moment, his eyes sweeping over the room. He sees the refreshments table, and Lord Castiel standing beside it, a slight smile on his lips as he watches the dancers. 

“Yes,” Dean replies with more confidence than he feels.

“Good. Now do what we’re paying you to do.”

Dean approaches the table, Zachariah following a few steps behind. He moves as though to fetch himself a glass of punch, and then deliberately spills some on the ground, letting out a soft exclamation as he does. He hears Zachariah curse behind him and step forward to chastise Dean for his clumsiness, but as he does--

“Allow me.” Lord Castiel’s voice is deep and slightly rough as he offers his handkerchief to Dean, who accepts it with wide eyes and murmured thanks. He bends to mop up the spilled punch, leaning forward at an angle he’s certain will show his backside to his best advantage.

He straightens back up and meets Lord Castiel’s eyes. This close, they’re revealed to be a stunning shade of blue, piercing and intelligent. Dean looks back at the handkerchief in his hand, and his lips twitch in a small smile. “I’m afraid it’s quite ruined now,” he says. 

Lord Castiel glances at it, then back at Dean’s face, and one corner of his mouth lifts in amusement. “Not to worry,” he says. “I have several others just like it.”

Lord Zachariah joins them, and Dean immediately notices the way Lord Castiel stiffens in his presence, all traces of his previous amusement fading as he nods at him in greeting. 

“Ah, I see you’ve met my cousin,” Lord Zachariah says, looking between the two of them. “You should not be so clumsy, cousin.”

“It was an accident,” Lord Castiel says smoothly before Dean can even reply. “No lasting harm done.”

“Other than to your handkerchief,” Dean murmurs.

He feels a thrill of victory when Lord Castiel’s mouth quirks upwards again. “Indeed,” he agrees. “Your cousin, you say? I do not believe we’ve had the pleasure of meeting before.”

“My apologies,” Zachariah says. “May I present my cousin, Mr. Dean Winchester, recently come to stay with me. Dean, Lord Castiel Milton.”

They both make their polite bows, and Dean feels Lord Castiel’s eyes slowly skim over his face and body. He keeps his expression neutral, but inwardly, he’s very pleased with how this is going. He knew, based on what others had said of his character, that Lord Castiel was well-mannered and gracious. Spilling the punch was an effective way to get his attention, and apparently he was also good-humoured enough to gracefully accept the loss of his handkerchief.

Now all Dean has to do is maintain that initial interest.

“Is it your first time in London?” Lord Castiel asks. The question has been asked by many others over the course of the evening, but he sounds more interested in Dean’s answer, somehow. Like he truly cares to know, rather than just being polite. 

“Yes, my lord,” Dean replies. 

“And how are you finding it thus far?”

Dean looks around the room, at all the people in the their extravagant dresses and well-cut coats, jewels sparkling under the lights. “It’s very different than Derbyshire,” he says diplomatically. It’s probably even true, not that he would know. He’s never been to Derbyshire.

“I’ve never been to Derbyshire,” Lord Castiel replies, sounding almost apologetic. “But I imagine you’re correct.”

Dean smiles. He’s relieved to hear Lord Castiel has never visited the area he supposedly calls home, as that could lead to some awkward questions. “Have you lived in London all your life?” he inquires.

For a brief second, Lord Castiel’s expression tightens, but it smoothes back out almost immediately. Dean notices, though, and wonders what it indicates. “Not quite all my life, but most of it, yes,” Lord Castiel says. “I should like to travel more someday.”

Lord Zachariah has been quiet since he made the introductions, but now he clears his throat rather loudly. “My apologies,” he says. “I must excuse myself a moment. Cousin, will you be alright without my company?”

“I believe I shall manage,” Dean says. He looks up at Lord Castiel from under his lashes, and is rewarded with the way those blue eyes linger over his face. “So long as Lord Castiel does not mind me intruding on his solitude awhile longer.”

“Intrude away,” Lord Castiel murmurs.

Zachariah bows and turns, giving Dean a subtle nod as he does. Dean nods back. He understands perfectly. 

Once Zachariah is gone, Dean returns his full attention to Lord Castiel. “Where would you most like to travel?” he asks, resuming their conversation.

A distant look enters Lord Castiel’s eyes. “Italy, perhaps,” he says softly. “Spain. Warmer places than this, certainly. The winters here are….unpleasant, to say the least.”

Dean smiles at the thought of this polite, gracious man disliking London winters. Not that he would know the true meaning of being cold. Lord Castiel has surely never spent a night on the streets of London, huddled beside the other unfortunate souls, desperately trying to maximize what warmth their bodies could provide. 

“I’m not fond of the cold either,” he says. “I wonder if it’s worse here or in the country.”

“Do you not plan to stay to find out?” Lord Castiel asks. 

For the first time since their conversation began, Dean isn’t certain how to answer the question. It’s only June now, and he never really considered how long Zachariah and Uriel’s plan would take. He has no idea where he will be come winter-- here, still convincing Lord Castiel to fall in love with him? Already finished with this dishonorable task and living his own life somewhere far away? Back at Crowley’s brothel after failing to secure Lord Castiel’s affections?

“I do not wish to rely on my cousin’s generosity for too long,” he says eventually. “His hospitality may eventually run its course.”

Is that a flash of disappointment in Lord Castiel’s eyes? “You and your cousin,” he says, and then pauses, as though re-thinking his statement. “You are not much alike.”

Dean wishes that were true. He and Zachariah are in this scheme together now, and perhaps one might say Dean’s motives are more pure, seeking freedom rather than vengeance, but the fact remains: they plan to destroy this man. A good man. One Dean has already grown to like and respect, even in these few brief minutes of conversation.

“We are far apart in age, and have not spent much time together until now,” he replies. “I suppose all families have their differences.”

“I suppose,” Lord Castiel agrees, but he doesn’t comment further.

Dean makes a mental note to ask Lord Zachariah about Lord Castiel’s family. He suspects there may be something tragic there, judging by the way he does not respond with anecdotes about his own siblings or cousins. Dean would not wish to drive him away by saying something insensitive.

Unfortunately, this leads to a lull in their conversation. Dean sneaks glances at Lord Castiel, assessing whether he looks bored or tired of Dean’s company, but his eyes are once again fixed on the dancers, that little smile playing around his lips.

So he appreciates dance, that much is clear. 

“We have nothing like this in Derbyshire,” Dean says, indicating the couples twirling around the floor in perfect unison. “Small gatherings, yes, and some dances, but they’re far simpler and much less graceful.”

Lord Castiel turns to look at him once more. “Do you enjoy the city style of dancing?”

Dean laughs. “I’ve only had the pleasure of experiencing it twice, both times in the last hour,” he admits. “But yes, I enjoy it.”

He’s manipulated the conversation perfectly. He waits with bated breath, and then--

“Perhaps you will do me the honour of a dance, then,” Lord Castiel says.

He must not let his triumph show on his face. Instead, Dean looks at his companion and blinks as though surprised by his offer. “It is you who honours me,” he murmurs.

“Then we shall be the most honourable pair on the floor,” Lord Castiel declares. His eyes are alight with good humour, and Dean finds himself grinning in response to it. 

He lets his grin fade, though, remembering his promises to other guests. “I have accepted several other invitations to dance,” he says regretfully. “And I believe one of them shall be the next.”

He doubts Lord Castiel is invested enough at this early stage to be envious of other people dancing with Dean, but surely it can do no harm to highlight his own desirability. 

“I will wait for you here, then,” Lord Castiel replies.

Dean blinks at him, his surprise genuine. “You have no others with whom to dance?”

Lord Castiel laughs. “Most of the eligible young men and women have long since given up on dancing with me, once they realize that a dance is all they will get.”

Yes, Dean remembers now: despite being only in his late twenties, Lord Castiel is considered one of the most eligible bachelors in London, but if the rumours are to be believed, he stubbornly refuses to wed despite numerous offers. 

“And so they have determined their time is better spent dancing with someone who may genuinely wish to court them,” Lord Castiel continues. “Leaving me with little to do but watch.”

Dean understands Zachariah and Uriel’s plan a bit better now. If Lord Castiel has little interest in the usual tactics of the marriage market, it’s likely he is either not interested in matrimony at all, or values it so highly that he will not settle for a marriage based only on social connections. So Dean must not allow himself to slip into the role of the simpering young thing seeking their match. Something slower, more genuine will be more likely to win over Lord Castiel’s heart.

“You may have no fear on that account with me,” he says breezily. “I am here to take in the sights of London and to improve my manners, not to catch a bride or groom.”

Lord Castiel nods approvingly. “I fear some of your dance partners will be disappointed by that,” he comments, “but not I.”

“Then away I go to disappoint,” Dean laughs, and with a bow, he leaves Lord Castiel.

But he feels those eyes on him the entire way across the room.

Dean dances with two other young ladies, one of whom chatters away so much he barely needs to attempt to reply, and the other who merely blushes and giggles in response to any of his polite questions. 

His next partner is a beautiful but rather intimidating woman named Lady Abaddon, whose sly looks would be flattering if they weren’t quite so terrifying. She leans close to Dean while they dance, and her nails dig sharply into his side even through the thick fabric of his coat. He’s quite glad when their dance is finished, but he also suspects she’ll ask him for another, so he hurriedly excuses himself, explaining that he has promised the next dance to Lord Castiel.

“Castiel?” she says with a dismissive laugh. “You seek attention in the wrong place, my young lord.”

“Nevertheless, I must uphold my obligation,” Dean says, praying she has the good manners to respect a previous commitment.

“Very well,” Lady Abaddon sighs. “We’ll meet again another time, I’m sure.”

Dean bows politely and forces himself to walk calmly away from her rather than fleeing as he desires to do. He returns to where Lord Castiel is standing by the refreshments table, an amused expression on his face.

“Help,” he whispers as he approaches, and he’s rewarded with another of those brilliant smiles.

Lord Castiel extends his arm and takes hold of Dean’s. “Of course,” he says. “I warned you, did I not? They’re vultures.”

“I had not thought they would be so forward,” Dean admits as they step onto the floor. The music begins, and he follows Castiel’s movements as best he can. They’re close enough in height to be well-matched, and it’s one of the simple dances, so he thankfully appears more competent than he truly is.

“Surely you’ve had offers before,” Castiel comments as they dance. “A young lord such as yourself.”

His tone is neutral, but his eyes sweep over Dean’s body briefly as he speaks, and Dean instinctively knows Castiel is commenting not only on his youth but also his attractiveness. It’s likely just his imagination, but he swears he can feel the warmth of Lord Castiel’s hand against his lower back even through his formal attire. They are a perfectly appropriate distance apart, and yet their dance feels far more intimate than any of the others Dean has shared so far. He smiles to himself, but simply shakes his head in response to the question. 

“A few half-hearted plans to make a match with others nearby,” he replies, hoping his answer is vague enough to discourage discussion of exactly which estates. “But as you said, I am young yet, and it was deemed I should make this trip to London before seriously entertaining any proposals or making any of my own.”

“You are not to inherit?” Lord Castiel asks.

Dean spares a grateful thought that Zachariah and Uriel took the time to create an entire backstory for him and his family. “No,” he says. “I have two older brothers, and my parents are blessedly healthy, so I do not expect the title shall ever pass to me.”

Lord Castiel nods approvingly. “Then this trip was well-thought indeed,” he states. “Leave your brothers to the serious business of running the estate while you have some grand adventures.”

He hesitates for a moment as they execute a complicated step, then continues. “I hope you do not think me too forward,” he says, “but if you’d like, I would be delighted to show you some of London’s finest sights over the course of your stay. Properly chaperoned, naturally.”

Dean doesn’t have to fake his smile. “That would be wonderful,” he says. “I do so appreciate my cousin’s time and generosity, but it would be pleasant to see the city through the eyes of someone closer to my own age.”

“Perfect,” Lord Castiel says warmly. “I shall call on you at your cousin’s residence later this week, then?”

Only one meeting, and already Lord Castiel seeks more of his company. Dean is rather pleased with himself, but he must not become over-confident. Too much is at stake to risk it all so soon. 

“I look forward to it,” he says as the music comes to a close. 

They both make their bows, and their eyes meet. The air is charged between them, but before Dean can speak, they’re interrupted by the arrival of a richly-dressed woman who barely gives Dean a second’s worth of attention before dragging Lord Castiel away.

He looks back over his shoulder and makes a face at Dean, who chokes back a laugh and offers a small wave in farewell. In some ways, it’s best that they were separated. It will increase the anticipation until their next meeting.

“Well done,” Lord Zachariah says, appearing as though out of thin air. “He is not dragging you off to the balcony for an assignation, perhaps, but he seems to enjoy your company, which is promising.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Dean murmurs. 

Zachariah claps him on the back. “Enjoy a few more dances,” he advises. “And then we’ll make our exit.”

Dean nods. He’s less interested in the ball now that his first encounter with Lord Castiel has ended, but he maintains his smile as he allows himself to be led back out for another dance. He has captured Lord Castiel’s interest, though he cannot say in quite what way. It’s possible he only meant his offer to show Dean the city as a gesture of friendship. 

If so, Dean still has much work to do. He finds himself oddly looking forward to it.


	3. Chapter 3

It takes a few days for Lord Castiel to make good on his promise and call on Dean at Lord Zachariah’s residence. Dean spends those days in a state of bewildered boredom. There’s nothing for him to do here. At the brothel, the daylight hours were spent gossiping, cleaning, cooking, making repairs to their sheets and clothing. Here, there are servants to take care of such matters. 

He will not ask Zachariah what to do, despite his boredom. They ignore each other as much as possible, which suits Dean just fine. He mostly passes the time curled up in front of the window in his room, watching the street outside. 

The angle from his window does not provide him with a view of the front of the house, however, so it comes as a surprise when there’s a quiet knock on his door and Alfie informs him that he has a visitor. 

“Thank you, Alfie,” Dean says, still awkward in his dealings with the servants. They’ve all been unfailingly polite and kind towards him, but he finds it hard to adjust to this way of life.

His visitor can only be Lord Castiel. Dean straightens his shirt and smoothes a hand over his breeches, oddly nervous. 

Alfie gives him an encouraging smile. “You look very handsome,” he offers quietly.

Startled, Dean looks up at him, wondering if Alfie is making a play for his attentions, but Alfie just smiles and holds the door open for Dean. 

A compliment, freely given, with no expectations? What a strange thing. Dean tentatively smiles back at Alfie and takes a deep breath as he descends the stairs, carefully maintaining the even pace and the proper posture of a well-bred young man.

Alfie shows him to the parlour, where Lord Castiel is standing with his back to the door, examining the large portrait of Lord Zachariah that hangs above the fireplace. He turns at the sound of the door opening, and greets Dean with a pleased smile.

Dean bows. “Good morning, my lord.”

“And good morning to you,” Lord Castiel replies. “I do hope I haven’t interrupted any plans you might have had for the day. I realize I should have been more specific about when I would call.”

“It’s quite alright,” Dean assures him. “I had nothing scheduled for the day.”

“Then would you like to take a turn around Hyde Park with me?”

It’s a lovely day, warm and sunny, and Dean has never once visited any of London’s famous parks. Fortunately, Mr. Dean Winchester of Derbyshire would have no reason to have seen them either, so he will not have to feign his reactions.

“That sounds pleasant,” he agrees. But then he remembers their conversation at the ball, and the strange ways in which the rich conduct their social rituals. They will require a chaperone. “Will Lord Zachariah be joining us?”

“No.” Castiel smiles. “A dear friend of mine awaits us in the carriage, and her presence will lend us respectability.”

“Then I see no reason to delay further.” Dean turns to Alfie, who has been hovering unobtrusively near the door. “Alfie, please inform Lord Zachariah that I have gone for a turn in the park with Lord Castiel, and shall return later this afternoon.”

“Very good, my lord,” Alfie says with a bow.

Dean must have said it correctly, as neither Alfie nor Lord Castiel blink at his request or its phrasing. It’s amazing, really, how much he has absorbed simply by watching the way the nobility act. It bolsters his confidence, and he offers his arm to Lord Castiel as they depart.

As Dean steps up into the carriage, his first impression of their chaperone is of bright hair and an even brighter smile. “Hello!” she says. “I’m Lady Celeste. And you must be Dean.”

Dean blinks at her, slightly taken aback by her enthusiasm as well as by her youth. Aren’t most chaperones dour older women who scowl and mutter about their young charges and frighten away their prospective suitors?

“Good morning,” he says, rather stiffly.

“Lady Celeste can be over-enthusiastic at times,” Lord Castiel says as he takes his seat across from Dean. “But she is a dear friend of mine, and was quite eager to meet you.”

“Forgive me,” Dean replies, and does his best to offer Lady Celeste a warmer smile. “I was taken aback at your age, that’s all.”

Celeste and Castiel both laugh. “I’m properly married, I assure you,” she says breezily. “My wife, Lady Gilda, travels to visit her family frequently, and I often have to remain home to see to the running of things. When Castiel asked me to accompany you, I was quite pleased to be given an excuse to pass things off to my butler for the day.”

Her friendliness is endearing, and Dean relaxes as the carriage rolls away from Lord Zachariah’s house and towards the park. “You are new to London?” she inquires.

“Yes,” Dean replies. “Lord Castiel graciously offered to show me some of the things that may best impress a young man from Derbyshire seeing the city for the first time.”

“Is he not the most generous of souls?” Celeste smiles at Castiel, who flushes faintly at her praise.

“Indeed, he has proven himself to be exactly that,” Dean agrees.

“This is a trap, is it not?” Castiel asks, amusement laced through his words. “Now that you have spoken of me so highly, I must endeavour to live up to your descriptions of me.”

“And clever, too,” Celeste says in a mock-whisper.

Dean laughs. It’s impossible not to as Castiel rolls his eyes but looks fondly at Lady Celeste as he does. It’s clear to Dean that there is a great deal of affection between the two of them, and he feels grateful to be included in their outing today. 

He must be careful, though. He is here to ruin this man, not to make friends, even if friendliness is what will hopefully set him down the path towards that eventual ruin. It’s a delicate balance to maintain, encouraging friendship while also keeping himself from becoming attached. 

“How long have you been married?” he asks Lady Celeste politely.

Her pale cheeks flush prettily, and her eyes go soft when she speaks of her wife. “Two years,” she says. “Quite a whirlwind romance.”

“It must be difficult, with her travelling so much,” Dean comments. The obviously genuine affection between Celeste and her wife makes him wistful. It’s unlikely to be something he ever experiences for himself.

Celeste sighs, but then her face brightens once more. “It is difficult, but the reunions are rather wonderful,” she says slyly.

Lord Castiel’s eyes go wide, and he none-too-subtly prods his friend in the side. “Now, now,” he chides. “I’m not sure that’s appropriate.”

Dean forces himself to look surprised at Celeste’s comment, but privately, he’s rather amused by it. He’s also amused by the thought of being shocked by any remotely ribald comment. If only Castiel and Celeste knew his true identity, they would never worry about scandalizing him.

But they don’t know who he truly is, or all the things he’s done. The things that have been done to him. They expect a naive country boy, not a world-weary prostitute who lost the ability to find ribald humour amusing long ago.

“That sounds pleasant,” he manages to say, keeping his eyes downcast and hesitating slightly between words.

Lord Castiel makes a disappointed noise and clears his throat pointedly. “My apologies, Dean,” he says, glaring at Lady Celeste. 

“It’s alright,” Dean says, looking up once more and offering Castiel a small smile. 

Castiel smiles back, and for a second, Dean forgets Celeste is even there. Then she speaks again. “We’ve almost arrived,” she announces, looking out the window. “Now, Dean, I’m sure you’re accustomed to pretty sights out in the country, but there’s something marvelous about all the trees and flowers in the middle of the city.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” he replies. “I confess I find the air quite thick here in London.”

“Yes, Hyde Park is a wonderful place to escape the heaviness of the summer air,” Castiel agrees. “I like to spend time here as often as possible.”

“Do you ever travel to the country, Lady Celeste?” Dean asks. It’s both a good way to continue the conversation and a way to subtly check if she is familiar with his invented home region. He already knows Lord Castiel has never been there, which helps to ease his nerves. 

“Not often,” Celeste says regretfully, and Dean’s inwardly sighs with relief. If she knew the area he was meant to be from, he would have to be very careful about what he said. “I should like to accompany my wife more often.”

“Someday,” Castiel says gently, patting her hand where it rests on the seat between them. She gives him a grateful smile, and Dean is once again surprised by the clear strength of their bond. What must it be like, to care for a person without thinking of how they could be of use to you?

He glances idly out the carriage window and lets out a small gasp at the sight before him. They roll smoothly through a set of iron gates that lead into the park, and it’s as though they’re transported into another world. Dean has never seen so much green in one place. 

He doesn’t have to feign his wonder as he lets out a low whistle. “It’s beautiful,” he says softly.

Castiel and Celeste exchange pleased smiles. “I’m happy you like it,” Castiel says. “We’ll continue like this for some time, and then perhaps we can take a stroll through one of my favourite areas.”

“That sounds wonderful.” Dean looks out the window again as they continue down the gently winding path. This is the London he’s never known: a place of elegant gardens, well-dressed people moving gracefully through the lanes and paths. He twists to look back towards the gates and can no longer even see them. 

It must be nice, to simply shut out all the terrible things that happen in other parts of the city. 

“I remember the first time I came here,” Celeste says. “It felt like something out of one of my storybooks.”

Dean smiles at her, charmed by the image of a small red-headed girl peering out at the trees with a look of awe on her face. “Were you quite young at the time?”

“Yes, quite,” Celeste says, and then her voice falters. “It was not long before my parents passed.”

Castiel reaches for her hand again, and Dean murmurs a low apology. He wishes he could offer her the genuine sympathy he feels, but it wouldn’t fit with the lie he’s living. As far as his companions know, his parents are alive and well on their estate in Derbyshire, when in reality they’ve both been cold in the ground for many years.

“It’s a good memory to have of them, though,” Celeste continues with a brave smile. “Coming here makes me feel closer to them.”

“No wonder you were so eager to accept Lord Castiel’s invitation, then,” Dean says. 

“Precisely,” Celeste agrees. “Though as I said, I did want to meet you as well.”

“I’m no one special.” Dean isn’t sure why he would be such an interesting figure. He wonders what Castiel told Celeste about him, that she would be so intrigued. 

“Oh, I don’t believe that for a second,” Castiel says, and Dean looks up at him with a small smile. 

The path gets more crowded as they progress into the park, and Dean catches glimpses of the occupants of other carriages waving as they pass. Castiel waves back, and Dean wonders if even knows who he’s greeting, or if it’s merely another social ritual of the wealthy that makes little sense to him. He thinks it would be in keeping for a country lord to be confused by this behaviour as well, so he makes his bemusement known.

“Can you even see who you are waving to?” he asks as another carriage rolls past them.

Celeste chuckles, but it’s Castiel who answers. “Not generally,” he says. “But I can see the crests on their carriages, and I recognize most of them, so I can guess as to their occupants.”

“Ah,” Dean says, satisfied. Then he leans across the seat so Castiel can hear his whisper. “But what if their carriages have been stolen, and you’re in fact waving to a group of brigands and thieves?”

He’s rewarded with a surprised grin and a rich, rolling laugh that shakes Castiel’s entire body. “You make a good point,” he says. 

“If someone steals a carriage only to take it for a turn around the park, I think they deserve to have its use,” Celeste adds, her own eyes alight with merriment. “What fun that would be.”

“Oh, dear,” Castiel says with a sigh. “Now you’ve gone and given her a grand idea, Dean. I expect I’ll wake one morning to find this very carriage missing, only to have it returned hours later by Lady Celeste’s apologetic wife.”

“So long as I’m invited as well, I see no fault with that situation,” Dean replies.

“You have a standing invitation to all my carriage thievery,” Celeste declares grandly, then collapses back against the seat in a fit of giggles. “What a thing to say.”

“I fear I may come to regret introducing the two of you,” Castiel murmurs, but a small smile is still playing around his lips.

“Nonsense,” Dean says. “I’m quite certain you’re having far more fun at this moment than you were at Lady Talbot’s ball last week.”

“You are correct,” Castiel says. “Though I beg you not to inform Lady Talbot I said anything of the sort. I fear I would regret my words dearly if they ever made it to her ears.”

Dean and Celeste both place their hands over their hearts at the same moment. “I swear I shall never tell,” Dean says solemnly, and Celeste nods her agreement.

Dean is quite surprised at how much he’s enjoying this outing so far. The park is lovely, to be sure, but he thinks he would like spending time with Castiel and Celeste just as much no matter their location. The last person who made him laugh so much was-- but no. He must not think about Sam. If he does, his emotions will show on his face no matter how desperately he tries to control them. 

As they round another corner, Castiel raps gently on the roof of the carriage and they slow to a halt. He pushes open the door and steps down, affording Dean a rather pleasant view of his backside as he does. Castiel gallantly helps Celeste out of the carriage, and then remains where he is, smiling up at Dean as he offers him his arm.

Dean reaches out and takes it, attempting to step out as smoothly as possible. Castiel’s hand is warm against his own, and as soon as he withdraws it, Dean misses the contact. 

“This is my favourite spot in the park,” Castiel says, prompting Dean to look up and take in the view around him.

A fountain splashes gently off to their right, a large statue of an ancient-looking woman at its centre. There are benches scattered here and there, with a few others sitting and chatting or peacefully observing their surroundings. The birds sing in the trees above them, and the large patch of colourful flowers on their other side blow a pleasant fragrance through the air.

“It’s lovely,” he says simply.

“Come,” Celeste says, threading her arm through his and then holding the other out for Castiel to do the same. “It’s a beautiful day, and I have the two most handsome escorts in all of London. Let us give the gossiping matrons something to talk about.”

“And what will your wife think, when she returns home and hears that you’ve been seen strolling through the park with Lord Castiel Milton and Mr. Dean Winchester?” Despite his words, Castiel takes Celeste’s arm without hesitation, and they set off slowly down the path towards the fountain.

“She will be quite pleased to know I have good friends to keep me company in her absence,” Celeste replies calmly.

Dean wonders that he has so quickly been included in the category of Celeste’s good friends, but something about hearing her say it warms his heart. 

“Perhaps next time she can join us,” he suggests, and Celeste turns to him with a brilliant smile.

“Oh, yes,” she agrees enthusiastically. “She would enjoy that immensely. We both would.”

“Then we shall plan for it,” Castiel says, and he smiles at Dean over the top of Celeste’s head.

Dean hopes they won’t be too distressed when these plans of theirs never come to pass. He highly doubts he will continue this charade long enough to see them through. 

They talk of inconsequential things as they stroll through the park: how the weather compares to this time last year, what flowers are in bloom, some light gossip about people Dean met at the ball the other night. They draw a few curious looks from passers-by, and Dean can practically hear the whispers begin as they pass, wondering who he is and what he’s doing with Castiel and Celeste. 

One elderly woman, escorted by a young lady Dean guesses is her grand-daughter, is not so discreet. They’ve barely passed each other on the path when he hears the older woman say, “Who is that young man with Lord Castiel? Has he finally started courting?”

Dean swallows nervously, certain that Castiel has overheard the comment as well. He doesn’t know the best way to proceed: should he make a laughing remark, or pretend it never happened? 

Castiel, however, spares him the decision. “I should have known,” he says with a quiet sigh of resignation. “And the Dowager Duchess of Dovedale, too.”

“One of the most infamous gossips in all the city,” Celeste explains to Dean. “I shouldn’t worry, Castiel. They’ve said far worse about you before.”

“It’s not me I’m worried about,” Castiel mutters. “I do apologize, Dean. The park is beautiful, but it’s also very much in the public eye, and, well, people do love to talk.”

“I don’t mind,” Dean says with a small shrug. “As Celeste pointed out, there are worse things that could be said about either of us.”

Castiel sends him a small smile, and Dean’s steps falter for just a second, just enough to break the rhythm of their stride. Celeste patiently allows him to correct himself, but she gives him a curious glance, clearly wondering what caused him to stumble.

Dean isn’t certain himself. It was only a small smile. Well, a small smile, and the way the sunlight sparkled in Castiel’s eyes. And the way his dark hair has been ruffled by the breeze, blowing across his forehead and lending him a relaxed, disheveled look.

No, no, no. Dean must not let allow this to go any further. A natural attraction cannot be helped, and it would be foolish to attempt to deny that he finds Lord Castiel one of the most handsome men he has ever seen. But to allow that attraction to interfere with his mission in any way is a choice, and Dean must fight against it. 

He would simply focus his attention on Celeste instead, but his success also relies on him making Castiel feel something more than friendship for him. At least she is there between them. Dean wonders what it would be like to stroll through the park with Castiel alone, for it to be his arm threaded through his own, for there to be no space between them when those smiles are exchanged.

It’s a dangerous fantasy. Dean will never know that feeling. Not with Castiel, for certain, and likely not with anyone else either.

They continue their slow walk until they return to the place where they left the carriage, and Castiel helps them both back inside. His hand is gentle but strong against Dean’s back, and Dean feels the warmth of it long after the touch has ended. 

“Where shall we go on our next outing?” Celeste asks as they roll through the gates of the park, looking between the two of them. 

“I wouldn’t even know where to begin,” Dean says with a laugh. “I defer to your superior wisdom in this matter, Lord Castiel.”

“I shall think on it,” Castiel replies. “It will have to be quite impressive in order to suit my standards.”

“To the palace, to meet the King?” Celeste suggests, her eyes dancing.

Dean shudders. “I would find that quite terrifying,” he admits.

“He is rather intimidating,” Castiel agrees. “No, I think something else is in order.”

“Don’t take too long to think of it,” Celeste advises. “I would like to see the both of you again quite soon.”

Just as Dean opens his mouth to reply, the carriage jolts sharply as they come to a sudden halt. He’s thrown off his seat, landing hard against the door. Celeste gives a yelp of surprise, but Castiel has caught her, and they both remain in their seats.

“What the devil,” Castiel mutters. Then he notices Dean’s grimace and his tone switches to one of concern. “Dean, are you alright?”

“Yes,” Dean says, pulling himself upright with a little wince. He’ll likely have a fine bruise on his side, but nothing serious. “Why did we stop?”

He peers out the window to answer his own question, and sees Castiel’s coachman berating a young girl cowering by the side of the street. Before he can even think of how it will look to his companions, Dean is out the door of the carriage, placing himself firmly between the coachman and the girl.

“She ran out into the street, my lord,” the coachman explains, giving the girl a disgusted look. “Almost hit her. Apologies for the rough stop.”

Dean dismisses him with a wave of his hand, all his attention on the girl in front of him. Her hair is matted and her face is dirty, and she can’t be more than twelve years old. 

The same age as Sam, the last time Dean saw him.

He swallows roughly, the purse Lord Zachariah gave him for expenses hanging heavy in his coat. He reaches inside and withdraws a few coins, pressing them gently into the girl’s hand. She stares at him, distrustful, and Dean’s heart breaks even further. He knows that look in her eyes. He’s seen it in many others, and he’s well aware it’s been in his own many times over the years. She is wondering what he wants of her in exchange.

“Take it,” he says as softly as he can. “Go. Find something to eat.”

She stares at him a minute longer, then turns and runs, her thin legs pumping as fast as they can. Dean watches her go, taking a deep breath to collect himself.

“That was kindly done,” Lord Castiel says from behind him. Dean never even heard him step down from the carriage. 

Dean shrugs awkwardly. “She’s just a child.”

A child much like he was, once. If he has spared her even a few minutes of the despair that was his constant companion while in her position, it will be worth it. 

“You must be a most generous lord,” Castiel comments as they climb back into the carriage.

“We have a responsibility to those in need,” Dean says vaguely. He thinks it sounds like something a kind-hearted country lord would say, one accustomed to knowing and caring for all the people who live and work near his estate.

“I agree,” Castiel says, his tone somewhat bitter. “Though you may be hard-pressed who find others who do in this city.”

This does not surprise Dean in the least. He knows all too well how easily people slip between the cracks in London. How easily they are forgotten, or lost. How easily others turn their backs and ignore their plights.

He wonders what Lord Castiel does to help others less fortunate than himself, if anything. It would be impolite to ask, though, so Dean remains quiet.

It isn’t long before they arrive at Lord Zachariah’s residence. Dean offers a friendly smile to Celeste as he leaves the carriage. “I hope we will see each other soon,” he says, and he genuinely means it. 

She returns his smile. “We shall.”

“Thank you for today,” he says to Lord Castiel, lowering his voice slightly, creating an illusion of intimacy though Celeste is right there. “I look forward to our next adventure.”

“It was my pleasure,” Lord Castiel replies, his eyes fixed on Dean’s face. “And I do as well.”

Dean gives him another smile, then turns and leaves the carriage. He resists the urge to look back over his shoulder as he climbs the steps to the house. As soon as the doors close behind him, he slumps against them with a heavy sigh. 

This is going to prove far more difficult than he originally anticipated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Dowager Duchess of Dovedale is lovingly borrowed from Lauren Willig's Secret History of the Pink Carnation, which I cannot recommend enough if you enjoy historical romantic comedies. And yes, I did just find a way to sneak a book rec into my historical fic.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning for some unpleasant memories in this chapter-- Dean has a bad dream about rough treatment he's endured in the past.

A week after his tour of the park with Lord Castiel and Lady Celeste, Dean comes downstairs in search of breakfast and finds Zachariah and Uriel waiting for him in the parlour instead.

“Good morning,” he says, trying to be civil despite his inclination to be anything but. 

They waste no time on pleasantries with him, of course. “Has he fucked you yet?” Uriel asks, his eyes hard as he looks at Dean as though he could read the evidence of his relationship with Castiel in the lines of his body.

Dean tenses, arms wrapping protectively around himself. “No,” he says through gritted teeth. “He’s made no attempt to touch me in anything more than a friendly way.”

“What good are you, then,” Uriel sneers. “Zachariah, you swore this would work.”

“It’s only been a few days,” Zachariah murmurs. “We still have time.”

“If Castiel hasn’t shown any interest yet, what makes you think he’ll suddenly change his mind?” Uriel argues.

Dean fights the urge to roll his eyes. Just because Castiel has manners, and tact, and thinks of Dean as a person and not just something that exists for his own pleasure, Uriel assumes he isn’t interested. 

“Castiel is a strange creature,” Zachariah says. “I believe this will yet work to our advantage. Dean, he intends to visit you again, does he not?”

“Yes, my lord,” Dean mutters.

“Soon?” Uriel presses.

“I believe so.”

“Good.” Zachariah nods firmly. “He’ll insist on being properly chaperoned, and you shouldn’t directly oppose him on that, but see if you can manage to find some time alone. It should help matters progress.”

“Yes, my lord,” Dean repeats. He doesn’t even know what Castiel is planning for their next outing, so it’s difficult to formulate a plan of action now. As much as it pains him to admit it, Zachariah is right. Dean enjoys Celeste’s company greatly, but if she continues to be with them every second he spends with Castiel, it will be much harder to fan the flames of attraction. 

“Go, make yourself presentable,” Zachariah instructs. “Lord Castiel may call on you today, if we are fortunate, and you must be ready if he does.”

Dean nods and leaves the room, closing the door behind him so he doesn’t have to listen to the rest of their conversation. He’s certain Uriel will have several less-than-flattering things to say about him.

He stops in the kitchens to find something to eat, and as always, the cooks are happy to provide him with food. Dean has never eaten so well in his life as he has this past week. It’s one of few things he enjoys about staying in Lord Zachariah’s home.

Upstairs in his chamber, he dresses himself in tight tan trousers and a dark red coat over his pristine white shirt. The buttons on the coat are gold, and he runs his fingers over them with reverence. He scrubs thoughtfully at his jaw, noting that he will soon need to shave. 

A light knock on the door interrupts his thoughts, and after Dean calls out permission, Alfie enters the room and gives him a small smile. “You have a visitor, my lord,” he says.

Dean feels a strange fluttering sensation in his chest. He tells himself it’s simply his nerves, and nods at Alfie. “Thank you. I will be down presently.”

With a low bow, Alfie leaves. Dean takes a deep breath and adjusts his coat, then follows.

Lord Castiel is waiting for him in the parlour, and thankfully, there’s no sign of Zachariah and Uriel. His face lights up when he sees Dean enter. “Good day,” he says, and he truly sounds pleased to be in Dean’s company once more. “Might I have the honour of another excursion today?”

Dean glances out the tall windows at the grey sky outside. “It is perhaps not the best day for a tour of the park,” he says.

Castiel laughs. “Fear not, I have made plans that should keep us warm and dry,” he replies.

“Very well then,” Dean answer. “Is Lady Celeste joining us once more?”

“Yes, she’s outside in the carriage.”

“Then we should not keep her waiting any longer,” Dean says, and indicates that Castiel should precede him out of the room.

Fortunately, it has not yet started to rain, though it looks likely to at any moment. Dean climbs into the carriage and grins at Lady Celeste, who’s smartly attired in a brilliant green gown that contrasts perfectly with her bright hair. 

“Dean,” she says warmly, stretching her hands out to him. “How wonderful to see you again.”

“And you,” he says, bowing over her hand like he’s seen so many gentlemen do. 

Castiel joins them, and with a sharp rap to the roof of the carriage, they’re off.

“Where are we going today?” Dean asks curiously. He doesn’t know this area of town well enough to guess their destination based on the route they’re taking.

Castiel and Celeste exchange glances. “Should we tell him?” Castiel asks, a hint of mischief in his voice. “Or should we make him guess?”

“Make him guess,” Celeste suggests. 

“That is most unfair,” Dean protests. “I know so little of London, I have no options to present as guesses!”

Celeste nods thoughtfully. “But you could guess in a general manner,” she says.

Dean sighs. “Very well. Are we...going to visit a friend of yours?”

“No,” they say in unison.

“Going to the theatre?”

“No.”

He throws up his hands in exasperation. “This is far too difficult,” he says.

“Come, let’s take pity on him,” Castiel murmurs to Celeste. She pouts for a second, then turns back to Dean. “You’ve been a good sport, so we’ll tell you: we’re going to see the Egyptian antiquities at the British Museum.”

None of those words mean much to Dean, but he nods and smiles nevertheless. “I confess I am unfamiliar with Egyptian antiquities,” he admits. Again, something that is true for both his real self and the character he’s playing.

“Not to worry,” Celeste assures him. “Most people who visit are in the same position. That’s rather the point of the display, after all. Only Castiel would already know so much about them, and visit on a regular basis, and make friends with the members of the expedition who retrieved them…”

Dean looks over at Castiel, who’s blushing at Celeste’s words. “I find the history and mythology of the ancient cultures fascinating,” he mutters. 

His enthusiasm for such a subject is really rather endearing. Dean can imagine a younger Castiel, likely shy and bookish, spending much of his time absorbed in his studies. “If you find them so interesting, surely there is much to recommend them,” he says. 

Castiel looks surprised not to be laughed at, and offers Dean a tentative smile. “You must tell me if you grow bored, though,” he insists. “This is meant to be for your enjoyment, after all.”

“I swear I will do so, though I do not expect that will be the case,” Dean promises him.

“They truly are fascinating,” Celeste adds. “I only like to tease Castiel for the strength of his passions, not where they lie.”

Dean smiles inwardly at her choice of words. From what he has seen so far, Castiel’s passions are well held in check. It is Dean’s task to bring them to light and hopefully, direct them towards himself.

To that end, he sends Castiel his most charming smile. “I will not tease you until I have passed my own judgment on the merits of these objects, then,” he says.

Castiel inclines his head gravely. “I thank you for your consideration in this regard.”

The museum, when they arrive, nearly steals Dean’s breath. It’s a grand, imposing structure, even more so than the houses he’s visited over the past few weeks. His awe must show on his face, because Celeste pats him reassuringly on the arm. “It’s quite magnificent, isn’t it,” she says. 

“I promised to show you my favourite places in London,” Castiel says, “and this is most certainly one of them.”

“It’s beautiful,” Dean says. The word hardly does it justice, but it’s the only one that comes to mind.

“Wait until you see what’s inside,” Celeste informs him with a wink, tugging him excitedly towards the steps as Castiel follows behind them at a more sedate pace.

They clearly aren’t the only ones who thought this gloomy day would be good for an indoors activity. There’s a steady stream of guests flowing through the museum’s tall doors, and Dean and his companions join the line, still looking around to take in all the sights. 

Once inside, Castiel’s shoulders straighten like a soldier preparing for battle, and his voice goes firm. “This way,” he says, pushing past the crowds milling about. “Follow me.”

Dean smiles to himself. He has found himself an expert guide, it seems. He and Celeste gratefully follow Castiel out of the noisy chaos and along a wide corridor. After a few minutes, Castiel stops in front of another wide arch, turning to look at them once more.

“Welcome,” he says simply.

The room is crowded, but fortunately Dean is quite tall and thus able to see over the heads of many of the other visitors. He barely knows where to focus his attention-- the strange coffin-shaped box in the centre of the room, the statues set into niches along the walls, the glass cases housing what look to be necklaces and other finery?

“It’s rather overwhelming,” he says helplessly.

Castiel places a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Come,” he says, guiding Dean to the centre of the room. “Let me explain it all to you.”

They pass several hours taking in all the treasures of Egypt. Dean listens raptly as Castiel tells him stories of the ancient Egyptians, their beliefs and their customs, his eyes alight with excitement. Several others drift closer as Castiel talks, obviously interested in what he has to say. If he notices that his audience has grown beyond Dean and Celeste, he gives no sign of it, just continues to talk with the same enthusiasm as before.

“And there’s so much more we still don’t know,” he concludes as they finish their tour of the room. “We’ve barely begun to discover the secrets long buried there. It’s likely we’ll never know everything, but I remain hopeful that we will continue to try.”

A light round of applause breaks out from the crowd lingering near Castiel, and he blinks, startled, as though he really didn’t know how many people were listening to him until now. He flushes faintly and lifts one hand in awkward acknowledgment of their applause. 

If Dean was enthralled by the stories Castiel was telling, he’s equally enthralled now, watching as the bolder members of the crowd come up to him with shy questions that Castiel answers patiently and enthusiastically. He’s clearly in his element here, far more so than he was in the ballroom at Lady Talbot’s manor. 

“You’d think he was a schoolteacher and not a powerful lord, wouldn’t you,” Celeste murmurs in Dean’s ear.

“Indeed,” Dean replies, keeping his voice low as well. “He said he was fond of the subject, but this…”

“More than mere fondness, yes,” Celeste agrees, looking proudly at Castiel as he explains that yes, they believe the Egyptians mummified animals other than human beings. “I’ve known him for several years, and he’s rarely happier than when he’s given the chance to talk about his passions.”

“It doesn’t happen often, then?” Dean asks. He finds that rather sad. Castiel should have an outlet for his knowledge, a way of sharing it with others like he is now, but on a more regular basis.

Celeste’s mouth tightens. “No,” she says. “Most of our peers have little interest in such subjects, beyond the bare minimum required to bring them up in conversation. One detail too many and the conversation returns to the subject of the newest fashions or who’s expected to make their debut next.”

“You’re not much like I expected from the lords and ladies of London,” Dean says bluntly. “Neither of you.”

“I had an unconventional upbringing,” Celeste laughs, “and Castiel...well, he was never meant to be in the position he is.” She looks as though she’s about to say more, but then shakes her head. “That’s not my story to tell, though.”

Dean had intended to ask Lord Zachariah for more information about Castiel’s personal history, but that was difficult to accomplish when he avoided talking to the man as much as possible. What little Celeste says intrigues him, though. Never meant to be in the position he is? Dean doesn’t know what that means in the context of the peerage, but he thinks it’s a phrase that applies to him as well.

He was never meant to be here, attempting to seduce an influential man only to ruin him, all in order to escape a life he never truly chose for himself. 

The details are quite different, of course, but Dean thinks this is something he and Castiel have in common.

He watches as a young boy comes up to Castiel to shyly ask him a question about one of the statues, and Castiel crouches down to his level, listening intently. The boy’s parents hover protectively in the background, but the mother smiles as she too listens to Castiel’s answer.

The boy is the last person to approach Castiel, and when he straightens back up, his gaze immediately goes to Dean and Celeste. He crosses the room to join them, running a hand through his hair as he does. 

“My apologies,” he says when he reaches them. “I have a tendency to get swept up in these discussions. It was rude of me to keep you both waiting.”

“I’m quite accustomed to it,” Celeste says with a shrug.

“I didn’t mind,” Dean says honestly. “I rather enjoyed listening to your conversations.”

Castiel’s smile is more brilliant than any of the gold in the room. “You’re too kind.”

The museum is slowly emptying, and they join the crowd of people heading for the exit. Celeste looks outside and makes a noise of dismay. “The rain’s started,” she announces glumly.

Castiel frowns and shrugs off his coat, holding it gallantly over her head. “It will have to do,” he says apologetically. “The carriage is just outside.”

Dean copies his movement, holding his own coat over his head. A bit of rain won’t bother him much. He’s spent many hours outdoors in the rain with no shelter in years gone by. 

They make a dash for the carriage, and collapse inside in a breathless, undignified sprawl. Celeste is laughing as she peels her wet hair away from her face, the coat having done little to protect her. Castiel laughs as well, and the movement draws Dean’s attention to his chest, visible through his shirt, which has gone transparent with the rain. 

Castiel looks up, and his eyes meet Dean’s. He draws in a sharp breath, and Dean is certain there’s a blush rising in his own cheeks at being caught staring. 

“Well, that was fun,” Celeste says brightly, and the tension between Dean and Castiel is broken. Dean swallows roughly and focuses his attention back on Celeste. “I should like to go home and sit in front of the fireplace for a time, I think.”

“Of course,” Castiel murmurs, carefully avoiding looking at Dean. 

Celeste’s home is quite close to the museum, and she insists on being dropped off first. Judging by the way her teeth are chattering, Dean thinks it’s probably a good idea. For her well-being, of course, not because that would leave him alone with Castiel.

The thought is far more thrilling than it ought to be. 

Dean bids her a fond farewell when they arrive at her house, and Castiel escorts her to the door despite the rain, claiming there’s no sense attempting to remain dry at this point. Dean waits in the carriage for him to return, his heart pounding in his chest. 

He knows he wasn’t imagining the look on Castiel’s face when he caught Dean admiring the breadth of his chest earlier. A look of desire returned. But will Castiel act on it? Dean thinks it’s better to allow him to make the first move. If Dean is too forward, he may ruin his chances.

Castiel pushes the carriage door open, and Dean freezes on the seat, willing his breathing to remain steady. If Castiel wants something of him, Dean will not deny him-- he thinks Castiel would be a skilled lover, would treat Dean with consideration, a luxury he’s never known before.

“Let’s get you home as well,” is all Castiel says.

A strange feeling passes through Dean. Is it disappointment? Not only because Castiel’s continued gallantry jeopardizes Dean’s entire mission, but because, in truth, he wanted Castiel to reach for him, to place one of those large hands gently on Dean’s face, to press those plush lips against his own?

No, it cannot be. It _must_ not be.

Dean doesn’t trust himself to speak, so he just nods.

The silence is strained as they roll through the streets, broken only by the rain pounding on the carriage roof. Castiel sneaks glances at Dean, but every time Dean thinks he’s about to say something, he looks away.

Dean bites his lip and stares out the window, desperately searching for a way to salvage the situation. Just as he’s about to start a new conversation on some banal topic, the carriage lurches sickeningly, and he’s once again sent sprawling.

“Now what,” Castiel mutters, righting himself on the opposite seat. “Are you alright?” he asks Dean.

“Yes, though I’m beginning to distrust your carriage,” Dean replies.

Castiel sighs and sticks his head out the window to speak with the coachman. Dean doesn’t catch all of their conversation over the rain, but judging by Castiel’s tone, the news isn’t good.

“We’ve lost a wheel,” he announces. “We won’t be able to proceed.”

Dean sighs and shakes his head. What luck. “What do you suggest we do?”

Castiel frowns as he thinks it over. “We can wait and hope the rain slows,” he suggests. “Or...we’re quite close to my home. And we’re already wet. We might make a run for it.”

Dean shrugs. “I’ve been caught in the rain before,” he says.

“Very well, then.” Castiel makes a face and pushes open the carriage door. “This way.”

They must look rather ridiculous, their coats held over their heads as they dash through the streets, trying not to slip on the slick cobblestones. Fortunately, the street is quite deserted, most sensible people remaining indoors. It takes less than ten minutes for them to arrive in front of a large grey stone house that must belong to Castiel. He bounds eagerly up the steps and throws the door wide, ushering Dean inside before him.

Dean drops his coat, running his hand through his wet hair, and exhales deeply. “It could have been worse,” he comments. “We could have been much further from your house.”

Castiel gives him a strange look. “Your optimism does you credit,” he says, “but I confess I find it difficult to match.” 

A servant hurries towards them, her eyes going wide as she takes in their disheveled state. “My lord,” she says, “what has happened?”

“A minor incident with the carriage, Hannah,” Castiel tells her. “Not to worry. Please, take Dean upstairs and see that he has fresh clothes to change into.”

Hannah looks at Dean, but he can’t guess what she thinks of him arriving here with Castiel, both of them soaked to the bone and without the presence of Celeste or anyone else to lend them an air of respectability. “This way, my lord,” she murmurs, setting off down the hall.

Dean glances back at Castiel, who gives him an encouraging nod, and follows Hannah up the stairs. She leads him to a lavishly appointed chamber and hands him several soft towels, then bustles about in the wardrobe until she finds garments that she deems appropriate.

“I’ll prepare tea in the parlour,” she says as she leaves him to change. “Lord Castiel will join you there shortly, I’m sure.”

“Thank you,” Dean says politely. She gives him a small smile, her expression still unreadable, and dips a curtsey before closing the door behind her.

Dean looks around the room, but it’s a blandly comfortable guest chamber, from what he can tell, and there are no personal touches, nothing that tells him he’s in Castiel’s house. Slightly disappointed, Dean dries himself off as best as he can and changes into the clothes Hannah left for him. The trousers are slightly too loose, but the shirt and waistcoat are a good fit. He leaves his own things hanging over the back of a chair and hopes that’s the proper procedure. 

He finds the parlour easily enough, the house being laid out in quite a similar pattern to Lord Zachariah’s. Hannah is pouring a steaming cup of tea, which she hands to Dean as he enters. He murmurs his thanks again and sinks into one of the large chairs directly in front of the fire, relaxing against the soft fabric.

Castiel’s chuckle announces his entry into the room. “You look quite comfortable there.”

Startled, Dean attempts to stand, but Castiel waves a hand at him, indicating that he should keep his seat. He takes his own tea from Hannah and seats himself opposite Dean with a sigh of contentment.

“Much better,” he says with a smile. “I do apologize again for the inconvenience, Dean.”

“No need to apologize.” Dean steals a furtive glance at Castiel as he sips his tea. His hair is still damp, and he’s changed into a dark blue coat that accentuates the width of his shoulders. He looks comfortable and surprisingly approachable. 

“I know this is all rather untoward,” Castiel says hesitantly, “but since the rain seems unlikely to let up anytime soon, and you’re already here...would you care to join me for dinner?”

Dean blinks at him in surprise. He thought, if anything, Castiel would be leading him upstairs to ravish him, after those heated glances in the carriage. An invitation to dinner is a far more subtle indication of interest, but Dean thinks it may serve his purposes better in the end. 

“That sounds wonderful,” he says, but then lowers his voice and leans closer to Castiel, close enough that he can feel the warmth emanating from his body. “Won’t the servants talk, though? The impropriety of it all…”

Not that Dean truly cares about the ridiculous notions of propriety held by the rich. It seems like something he ought to at least pretend to pay lip service to, though. 

Castiel flushes slightly. “I didn’t intend--”

Dean dares to lay a gentle hand on his arm, cutting off his words. “I don’t care,” he says. “We don’t stand on ceremony much, where I’m from. I only worried about you and your reputation.”

Castiel’s eyes stray to where Dean’s hand still rests on his arm. “The blow to my reputation would be far greater were I to send you back out into the rain with no carriage to take you home, I believe.”

“You might be correct,” Dean agrees. “In that case, I accept your invitation. All that running in the rain has made me rather hungry.”

“Excellent.” Castiel’s smile is radiant. “It will be nice to have some company for once.”

Frowning, Dean asks, “Don’t you have friends who visit and dine with you?”

Castiel shrugs loosely. “Celeste and Gilda on occasion, yes. But not many others.”

He’s lonely, Dean realizes. It makes him feel even worse about what he plans to do, how he plans to hurt him. He takes a large sip of his tea to avoid having to respond while he forces himself not to falter.

He leans forward conspiratorially. “And I will be glad to have company other than my cousin.”

Castiel laughs, startled. “Dean,” he says, “that was unkind.” There’s no rebuke in his tone, though, only amusement.

They chat lightly while they finish their tea, discussing Dean’s time in London so far and what other things Castiel could show him during his stay. By the time Hannah arrives to announce that dinner is ready, Dean is quite enjoying himself. He doubts this easy conversation is what Uriel intended when he suggested Dean get Castiel alone, but he doesn’t care. No matter how things turn out between them, this will remain a pleasant memory for Dean, he’s sure of it.

Castiel’s dining room is large and elegant, and when Hannah shows Dean to his seat, he’s disappointed at how far away he is from Castiel. Despite the distance between them, the candles flickering warmly on the table lend the room an air of intimacy. Dean is glad he’s had some practice dining at Lord Zachariah’s, so he doesn’t embarrass himself or Castiel with his lack of manners. 

He makes sure to murmur his thanks to the servants who stream in from the kitchen bearing dishes of delicious-smelling food. They give him genuine smiles in return, and he can tell by the way they fuss over Lord Castiel that they have a good relationship with their employer. It doesn’t surprise Dean, considering what he knows of the man, but it does add to the uncomfortably long list he’s compiling of Castiel’s positive attributes. 

At the other end of the table, Castiel raises his glass in a toast. “To new friends,” he says.

“To new friends,” Dean echoes. The wine is smooth and heady, and Dean sips it carefully. He doesn’t consume alcohol often, only a few sips of gin on the worst nights or the worst mornings, and he doesn’t wish to impair his judgment in any way tonight. 

He fears he’s already compromised by his own growing attraction to Castiel. Intoxication would only make things worse.

Despite his hunger, Dean eats only in moderation. He’s not yet accustomed to the richness and abundance of food served at every meal, and at times he finds it overwhelming. Castiel, of course, notices immediately. 

“Is the food not to your liking?” he frowns. 

“No, no,” Dean assures him. “It’s wonderful. It’s simply more extravagant than what I’m used to at home, and like so many other things about city life, it takes some getting used to.”

Castiel’s face clears. “Of course,” he says. “You must be used to simpler, fresher things at home.”

This sounds correct, so Dean nods. “There’s just so much variety here,” he says. “Everything at home is orderly, predictable, familiar, comfortable.” The very picture of idyllic country life, or what he assumes that would be like. His own life prior to this arrangement was predictable and familiar, perhaps, but certainly not orderly or comfortable.

“It sounds wonderful,” Castiel says. His tone is wistful, and Dean can’t help but wonder if Castiel would have been better suited to running a country estate than he is to this position of power in the city. 

“Perhaps someday, you could visit me in Derbyshire,” he offers. “And you could experience it for yourself.”

There’s no possibility that such a trip would ever take place, but when he sees the way Castiel brightens at the idea, Dean wishes with all his heart that it could. 

“I would like that very much,” Castiel murmurs. “Dean…”

Whatever he’s about to say is cut short by the servants coming to clear their plates, and Dean doesn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved. 

After they’ve finished eating, they return to the parlour, where Castiel pulls back the curtains to look out onto the street. He turns back to Dean with a grimace. “It’s still raining,” he announces.

Dean is warm, and comfortable, and feeling rather lazy after the rich meal. But he knows the night has to come to an end. “I’d best be on my way, then,” he says. 

“I suppose that would be best,” Castiel agrees. He slowly escorts Dean out into the hall, but just as Dean reaches for the door, he stops him. 

“This is ridiculous,” Castiel says under his breath. He inhales deeply and looks up at Dean with a nervous expression. “I cannot in good conscience allow you to cross the city in weather like this,” he says. “You could be set upon by thieves, or catch a chill in this rain.”

It wouldn’t be the first time he found himself in either of those scenarios, but Dean wisely refrains from mentioning that. Instead, he tilts his head to the side slowly, wondering what Castiel’s point is.

Castiel licks his lips, and Dean tracks the movement with his eyes. “Stay,” Castiel blurts out, and Dean’s eyes fly upwards to meet his. “Stay,” Castiel repeats. “I know it’s scandalous, I know it’s improper, but I assure you, I mean it only in the spirit of friendship and consideration for your well-being.”

Dean wouldn’t mind if he meant it another way, but he doesn’t think the time is right for them to fall into bed together. Not yet. This may be an excellent milestone along the road to that eventuality, though. 

“You’re sure?” he asks.

Castiel nods firmly. “It’s the right thing to do. Proper or not.”

Dean agrees with him on that. “Very well,” he says slowly. 

“Will your cousin worry?” Castiel asks. “We can send a message if you think it will help.”

The thought of Zachariah worrying about Dean is amusing. “I think he’s likely to have retired for the night,” he says, glancing at the clock. “And he has several times made mention that he would like to see me take advantage of the city and all it offers. I doubt he will be overly concerned.”

Castiel’s face shows clearly what he thinks of Zachariah’s lack of attention, and it makes Dean smile. This man. His kindness never fails to take Dean by surprise.

“Thank you,” he says softly. “You’ve been exceedingly generous towards me today.”

Castiel’s eyes are soft. “No more so than you deserve,” he says. His hand twitches by his side as though he wants to raise it to Dean’s face, but he makes no move. 

Dean considers it. He could step forward, could lean in for a kiss, could wrap his arms around Castiel in an embrace. He is confident that he would not be rejected. But he ruins the moment by breaking into a wide yawn, his hand flying up to cover his mouth.

Castiel chuckles. “You must be exhausted,” he says. “To bed with you. The chamber you used to dress earlier is available to you. If there is anything else you require, please do not hesitate to ask either myself or Hannah.”

“Thank you,” Dean repeats. “Goodnight, then, my lord.”

“Goodnight, Dean,” Castiel replies. 

The way he says Dean’s name is the sweetest lullaby Dean has ever heard. With one last smile, he turns and climbs the stairs, feeling Castiel’s eyes on his back until he disappears from sight.

As Castiel said, the guest chamber is already prepared. He finds a soft nightshirt in one of the chests along the wall, leaving his clothes from earlier neatly folded on top of it. He blows out the candles and crawls into the large bed, arranging himself comfortably under the covers. The pillows are soft beneath his head, and he can still hear the rain outside, but the noise is muffled enough to be soothing.

Dean traces an absent hand over his lips, wondering what it might be like to feel Castiel’s pressed against them. He’s never been kissed in tenderness or affection before. Only possessiveness or temporary passion. He thinks, based on the way the evening has gone, that it will not be much longer before Castiel makes that move.

He should feel proud that his goals are within his sight, but instead, he feels wretched.

***

_Rough hands sliding over his bare skin. Hot, gin-soaked breath on his cheeks. An ominous chuckle in a dark, low voice. Dean can’t see, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but remain as still as possible and hope that it will all be over soon. ___

__He wakes in a cold sweat, the once-comfortable covers kicked to the foot of the bed and the soft sheets twisted around him like the rags around the mummy they saw earlier in the day. His heart is pounding, and he passes a shaky hand over his forehead and finds it clammy with sweat. His throat feels rough, and he swallows shakily, desperately trying to steady his breathing._ _

__He hasn’t had a nightmare this bad in weeks._ _

__The bedchamber door flies open, and Dean shrinks back into the bed, instinctively curling himself into a tight ball. A dark figure looms in the doorway._ _

__“Dean?” comes Castiel’s voice, pitched low. “Dean, are you alright?”_ _

__It’s just Castiel. Castiel won’t hurt him. Dean relaxes slightly as Castiel enters the room, holding a candle in front of him, which he places on the table in the corner before coming to stand by the bed._ _

__“I heard screams,” Castiel says gently._ _

__Dean turns his face away, embarrassed. “It’s nothing,” he mumbles into the pillow._ _

__“It didn’t sound like nothing.” The bed dips slightly as Dean feels Castiel sit beside him, close enough that he could reach out and touch him._ _

__Dean rolls back towards him, but still won’t meet his eyes. “Just a nightmare,” he says. “I’ll be fine now. I’m sorry I disturbed you.”_ _

__“Do you have them often?”_ _

__Dean doesn’t know how to answer, so he just shrugs._ _

__“What are they about?”_ _

__A bitter laugh almost escapes him, but he manages to keep it inside. What are they about? Dean can’t tell Castiel that. Can’t tell him about all the times he’s dreamed about the day his mother died, or about the day he lost Sam, or about the first time he undressed himself with trembling hands under the heated gaze of a man more than twice his age. Or about any of the times after that, the men who left bruises and the ones whose words are forever burned into Dean’s memory._ _

__He just shakes his head. He can’t talk about it. He doesn’t know how to lie this time. He wasn’t coached for this. What would a young country lord whose family is alive and well have as fuel for his nightmares? Dean is too tired, too raw to come up with a plausible story._ _

__Castiel reaches out, then, and places a tentative hand on Dean’s shoulder. “If you ever want to talk about them…” He takes a deep breath. “I have them too, sometimes. Not as often anymore.”_ _

__Dean looks at him, surprised, and finally finds his voice again. “You?”_ _

__Even in the dim light, Dean can see his wry smile. “Me,” Castiel says._ _

__It would be unfair to ask what haunts Castiel’s dreams when Dean wouldn’t do the same. But he wants to._ _

__Castiel must read the question in his eyes, because he sighs, removing his hand from Dean’s shoulder and folding both hands neatly in his lap._ _

__“You probably don’t know much about my family history,” he begins. “It was the talk of the town here, but I doubt the news reached you out in the country.”_ _

__Dean shakes his head, but Castiel isn’t even looking at him. His loose white nightshirt is open at the neck, revealing the vulnerable hollow of his throat and the top portion of his chest. The candlelight casts flickering shadows over the edges of his cheeks and his jaw, and his voice is quiet but controlled._ _

__“I had two older brothers,” he continues. “Twins. My mother died when I was very young, and my father was kind, but distant. Michael and Lucien were five years older than me, and I worshipped them. They loved each other fiercely, but they fought just as fiercely. Michael was technically the elder by a few minutes, but Lucien didn’t think those minutes mattered. He thought they should inherit jointly. Share the titles and the wealth like they’d shared everything else in their lives.”_ _

__Dean can tell by Castiel’s tone that this story will not have a happy ending, but he’s captivated nevertheless. This must be what Celeste was referring to when she said Castiel was never meant to have this life._ _

__“They had just turned eighteen, and they started arguing about it more often. Father should have made a decision, but he kept saying they had time. He was healthy, it wouldn’t matter for years. I ignored most of it, content to read my books and know I would never inherit.”_ _

__Castiel swallows roughly, and Dean can see him clench his hands. “Then one night, Lucien came home drunk. He and Michael were arguing, and Father got between them. Lucien had a gun, I don’t even know why...it all happened so fast. The gun went off, and it woke me, and by the time I came downstairs, Father was dead, bleeding out on the floor. Michael was staring at Lucien, and all he could say was, “What have you done.” I screamed, but they barely even noticed me.”_ _

__Dean’s heart is breaking, and he wishes he knew what to say, but he doesn’t want to interrupt Castiel, not now._ _

__“Lucien caught sight of me, standing in the doorway. He said he was sorry, and that he loved me, and then he turned and ran out the door. We never learned exactly what happened to him, but his body was recovered the next day.”_ _

__“My father was dead, and so was one brother, and Michael was broken. He took a little of the money and the minute Father’s funeral was over, he left for the Continent, leaving everything to me. Leaving me alone.”_ _

__“You haven’t heard from him since?” By his estimate, this took place nearly fifteen years ago. How could Michael leave his brother of his own volition? Dean never meant to lose Sam. He’s never given up hope that he may still see him again someday._ _

__Castiel shakes his head. “I received one letter, saying he was alive and well, but he couldn’t come home, and asking me not to seek him out. All my replies went unanswered.”_ _

__Dean feels a burst of rage at this man he doesn’t even know. “He should have been there for you,” he say angrily. “You were his brother, and he should have been there for you.”_ _

__“I used to think the same,” Castiel says quietly. “But now, I think he was just protecting himself. I wish him well, wherever he is. I wish him peace.”_ _

__“But you don’t have peace,” Dean points out. “This is what you dream about?”_ _

__Castiel nods, and he finally looks back at Dean. “As I said, not so often anymore. The memories are fading with time.”_ _

__Dean wants so badly to tell Castiel that he understands. That he knows how it feels to lose your family, to feel alone in a cruel world. Another thing they have in common despite the differences in their circumstances. But as far as Castiel knows, his family is alive and well in Derbyshire. He cannot offer him the sympathy he feels without revealing the truth of his own identity._ _

__“I’m sorry to have brought them back to light,” he says instead._ _

__“It’s alright. It’s good, to talk about them sometimes. I hope someday you’ll talk about yours with someone as well.”_ _

__Dean doubts that very much, but he nods anyways._ _

__“Do you think you can sleep again?” Castiel asks._ _

__He doesn’t know, but he thinks he’s already bothered Castiel enough. “I’ll be fine,” he says._ _

__He must not sound very convincing, because Castiel gives him a stern look._ _

__Dean quails slightly under that gaze. “Maybe you can leave the candle,” he mumbles._ _

__Castiel’s eyes soften. “Do you want me to stay?” he asks._ _

__Dean doesn’t know what purpose that would serve. It would only result in Castiel losing more sleep. And yet he can’t deny that he wants exactly that, wants Castiel near him, is comforted by his presence in a way he can’t even explain, or isn’t willing to consider._ _

__Castiel must read the answer in his eyes, because he smiles softly and rises from the bed, pulling a chair over so he can sit in it. He hesitates for a moment, then tugs the covers back over Dean, smoothing them with a gentle hand._ _

__Dean hasn’t felt so cared for in years. His heart is pounding in his chest again, but this time, it’s not from fear._ _

__“Go to sleep,” Castiel advises, settling back in the chair like there’s nowhere else he would rather be. “It will all seem brighter in the morning.”_ _

__Dean nods, rolling onto his side so he’s facing Castiel. He knows he doesn’t deserve any of this. Doesn’t deserve this compassion. Doesn’t deserve this man._ _

__But whether for better or for worse, he’s too weak to deny himself._ _

__So he reaches out and takes Castiel’s hand where it rests of the arm of the chair, ignoring his startled intake of breath. He pulls it towards himself, holding it between both of his own and resting his head on top of their joined hands. He looks at Castiel, his eyes wide, afraid he’s gone too far._ _

__Castiel’s expression is caught somewhere between disbelief and elation. Dean can see him swallow nervously, but his eyes are hopeful and tender all at once. With his free hand, he reaches out and smoothes Dean’s hair back from his forehead, his touch light, like Dean is something precious, something to be treasured._ _

__“Sleep well,” he says. “I’ll be here.”_ _

__Dean looks at him until his eyes fall closed and he slips into a deep, unbroken sleep._ _


	5. Chapter 5

He wakes to the soft sound of voices, opening his eyes just in time to see Hannah bob a curtsey and close the chamber door gently behind her. Castiel is still sitting in the chair beside the bed, and though Dean is longer holding his hand, it rests on the covers beside him, never far from his reach. 

He blinks sleepily up at him. “Good morning,” he says, his voice soft.

Castiel turns at the sound of his voice and looks at him, eyes roving over Dean’s face, checking for signs of distress. When he finds none, he smiles, the fine lines around his eyes visible in the sunlight streaming in through the window.

“Good morning,” he replies. “It appears the rain has stopped.”

“Indeed,” Dean says, yawning. It gives him an excuse to close his eyes, to turn away from Castiel, who looks deliciously rumpled after spending the night in a less-than-comfortable position. Dean wants to tug him down onto the bed beside him, let himself be wrapped up in his arms, and go back to sleep in the sunshine like a pair of lazy cats. 

Instead, he pushes the covers back and sits up, his nightshirt falling loosely from his shoulder as he does. Castiel’s eyes drop to the patch of newly bared skin, and they linger there for a moment before returning to Dean’s face.

He doesn’t flush, or make any move to touch Dean again. Dean thinks he understands where they stand: there’s something between them, they both know it, but it’s still too fragile and new to be acted upon. 

Castiel stands. “I’ll let you dress,” he says. “Would you like breakfast before you go?”

Part of Dean wants to say yes, to draw out this morning as long as possible, but he shakes his head. “I ought to be returning to my cousin’s house,” he says with genuine regret. “The weather is fine enough to walk now.”

“Let me escort you,” Castiel says immediately. It seems he isn’t willing to let Dean go quite yet either.

Dean gives him a wry smile. “Unless we fetch Lady Celeste first, that might be unwise,” he says.

“Cursed propriety,” Castiel mutters under his breath, making Dean grin. He’ll never cease to be amused by the way Castiel chafes at the social rules of those in his position.

“Indeed.” Feeling bold, Dean makes a little shooing gesture, waving Castiel out the door. “Speaking of propriety…”

“Yes, of course.” Castiel nearly trips over himself in his haste to leave the room, though he does take one last lingering look at Dean as he pulls the door closed behind him. 

Dean’s clothes from the day before have dried, so he puts them back on and straightens up the bed as best as he can before making his way downstairs. Castiel is waiting for him in the entryway, still in his nightshirt. Dean wants very badly to make some reference to their conversation from the night before, to thank Castiel for confiding in him, to recognize what trust it took to tell that story. 

“I’ll see you again soon?” he asks instead, looking up at him hopefully.

“Yes,” Castiel says simply. “Good day, Dean.”

“Good day, my lord.” He casts one last look over his shoulder as he leaves, returning Castiel’s wave with one of his own.

He hums to himself as he makes his way back to Lord Zachariah’s house. The streets are quiet around him, most people still asleep, and the sunshine has chased away any lingering dampness from the day before. He feels strangely happy, happier than he has in a long time.

He tries to tell himself it’s because the plan is working, because Castiel is clearly falling under his spell, because he’s one step closer to securing his freedom. But for all that he lies and fakes his way through his interactions with everyone else, he’s always had difficulty lying to himself. Deep down inside, he knows the real reason for his happiness isn’t how well his seduction of Castiel is going. 

It’s just Castiel.

And that is likely going to be a problem. A serious one.

He enters Lord Zachariah’s house quietly, and once more he finds Uriel and Zachariah waiting for him in the parlour. His good mood sours immediately, and he swallows nervously, hoping they won’t be angry with him for spending the night away.

“You’d better have good news for us,” Uriel says coldly. 

“That would depend on your definition of good news,” Dean replies with a confidence he doesn’t entirely feel.

Zachariah rolls his eyes. “Enough of your cheek,” he snaps. “Where were you last night? Off making some extra money to line your pockets with, hmn?”

Dean flinches. It couldn’t be further from the truth. “No,” he says. “I was with Castiel.”

Uriel’s eyes light up. “And?” he says, sounding far too interested for Dean’s liking. “Did he finally have you?”

“No.” Dean gets a thrill of satisfaction from the way Uriel’s eyes go dark with displeasure, even if it worries him somewhat. 

“Then what did you do all night?” Zachariah asks, and his bewilderment would almost be amusing if it didn’t demonstrate exactly what he thinks Dean is good for. Not for conversation, not for companionship, but only for the comfort of his body.

Dean shrugs. “The carriage lost a wheel, he insisted I not walk here in the rain, we had dinner, then retired to separate chambers for the night.”

“And that’s it?” Uriel says skeptically. “Tell us the truth.”

He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to tarnish the memory of Castiel confessing to him by sharing it with these two bastards. But technically, they are his employers, and he has a contract with them, even if it’s only in words. 

“I had a nightmare,” he says stiffly. “He came to see what was wrong, and we spoke some, and he stayed while I fell back asleep.”

He’ll give them that much, but he won’t give them the details. Those are not his to share, though he suspects both Zachariah and Uriel already know what happened to Castiel’s family. 

Uriel mutters something uncomplimentary under his breath, but Zachariah looks thoughtful. “He cares for you,” he says. “Politeness takes us all so far, but it sounds as though he demonstrated true concern and consideration. That’s indicative of something more. You’re doing well, Dean.”

Dean acknowledges the statement with a curt nod. He doesn’t know what else to say.

“But eventually, it will have to be more,” Zachariah continues. “He needs to be fully enamoured, or else it will not hurt him near deeply enough when you leave him.”

Dean frowns. “Leave him?” he repeats. He always thought he would tell Castiel the truth, and Castiel would reject him for it. It would hurt, but it would be exactly what Dean deserves. 

“Of course,” Zachariah says, frowning. “Did you not understand the plan, boy? Once Castiel is in love with you, once he makes a declaration of feeling or intent, you will tell him you don’t care for him that way, and then disappear with the money we will give you, leaving him heartbroken and alone. What did you think you were supposed to do?”

Dean feels sick. He can’t explain why this scenario is so much more repulsive to him than simply telling Castiel the truth. “I thought I was to tell him the truth about me, and that would be enough to end things,” he says quietly. “That he wouldn’t want me anymore.”

Uriel laughs. “Oh, you naive thing,” he says mockingly. “You don’t understand at all, do you? If you told him the truth, Castiel would be hurt, it’s true. His pride would be stung, he would feel betrayed, he would think horrible things about you. But it wouldn’t last. He would get over it.”

“But thinking you didn’t want him, thinking he wasn’t good enough for you, thinking the one person he truly cared for didn’t care for him in return,” Zachariah continues, “now that would break him completely. For many years to come, he would think about what he did wrong, how he lost you, how much he wants you back.”

It’s cruel. Far crueler than Dean ever anticipated. “Why do you hate him so much?” he asks desperately. “What could he possibly have done to deserve this?”

Zachariah laughs bitterly. “It’s justice at its most poetic,” he says. “Did you know that I have a younger sister?”

“No,” Dean says, and he doesn’t know why this is relevant. 

“Her name is Rachel,” Zachariah continues. “We grew up together, Castiel’s family and mine. They were always close, the two of them. After my parents died, I thought they would make an excellent match. Rachel loved him very much, had for a long time.”

Dean is beginning to sense where this story is going.

“He rejected my proposal that we join our two families together,” Zachariah hisses. “He insulted not only me but my entire family, and he broke my sister’s heart. Oh, he was kind about it, or so he’ll claim if you ask him. He didn’t want to marry yet, and when he did, he wanted it to be for love. He’s always seen himself as better than the rest of us. Him and his ideals. He cared for Rachel like a sister, he said. But he could not do either of them the disservice of marrying her when he did not truly love her.”

Perhaps if it were Rachel orchestrating this entire scheme, Dean could understand. A broken heart, seeking revenge against the one who hurt her...but Zachariah doing so, supposedly on his sister’s behalf, speaks more of his own wounded pride than of any concern for her. 

“Where is Rachel now?” Dean asks. He’s curious despite himself. 

“Married years ago,” Zachariah says dismissively, proving Dean’s theory correct. This isn’t about her at all. She might be quite happy, never sparing a thought for Castiel at all.

Something Zachariah said keeps playing over and over in Dean’s mind. Castiel only wanted to marry for love. It makes sense with what Dean knows of him, and it also helps explain why Castiel has been so careful with him despite his obvious attraction to Dean. He doesn’t care for conquests, but seeks a genuine emotional connection.

And Dean is going to create that connection with him, and then use it against him.

Part of him wants to leave this house immediately, tell Uriel and Zachariah the deal is off, he can’t do this any longer. He can’t hurt Castiel that way. But if he did...he would have nowhere to go but back to Crowley’s. The thought of it makes him shudder. He swore to himself he would never return there again. 

He briefly wonders if Celeste might help him. But she’s too close to Castiel, would likely be enraged on her friend’s behalf, would hate Dean for lying to them both. 

He needs the money Zachariah and Uriel are offering him. He needs his chance at something better. He just wishes there was a way to obtain it without hurting the one person he thinks would never hurt him. The one person he’s allowed himself to care about in years.

“You look distressed,” Zachariah says shrewdly. “Not having second thoughts, are you?”

Second, and third, and fourth, and fifth. But Dean just swallows heavily and shakes his head,

“Good,” Uriel says, watching him carefully. “Because if you were...let’s just say it wouldn’t end well for you.”

Dean nods again. “I know what I have to do,” he says quietly. 

“Good.” Zachariah smiles coldly. “Now, get out of my sight.”

Dean stumbles up to his chamber and collapses onto his bed. The walls seem too close despite the size of the room, and he shifts nervously for a few minutes before curling into the window seat instead. It feels safer, more secure. He gazes out onto the street below, his heart aching.

Just a little longer. He only has to do this a little longer. And then it will be over, and he’ll be free, and Castiel will be shattered.

***

The next time they see each other is at another ball, this time hosted by Lady Mildred Baker. Dean and Lord Zachariah arrive late, and Dean’s eyes immediately sweep the room, searching for Castiel’s tall figure. He finds him dancing with Lady Celeste and smiles at the sight. There’s a genuine expression of happiness on Castiel’s face, the one he only wears he’s comfortable and relaxed.

“Good, he’s here,” Zachariah says, relieved. “Go speak to him as quickly as possible. You’re on good terms now, it won’t look suspicious.”

“Yes, my lord,” Dean mumbles. But instead of doing exactly as Zachariah instructs, he makes his way to the refreshment table and pours three glasses of lemonade, then positions himself so he’s visible to the dancers.

He sees Celeste’s face light up when she catches sight of him, and as soon as the dance ends, she practically drags Castiel over to greet him.

“Dean!” she exclaims. “How good to see you.”

“And you,” he says, passing her a glass of lemonade. “And you, my lord.”

He allows his hand to linger slightly when he offers the lemonade to Castiel, their fingertips brushing together softly. Castiel smiles at him and takes a sip, looking at Dean over the edge of his glass. 

“There are more people here than even at Lady Talbot’s,” Dean says, looking around the room. “I’m glad to see your familiar faces.”

Celeste grimaces. “Yes, it is rather crowded,” she says. “But Lady Mildred is a grand old society belle, and it’s quite important to be seen at her gatherings. It’s the only reason I’m here.”

“Your wife is still away?” Dean asks gently.

She nods sadly. “And thus I am forced to dance with Castiel.”

“Come now, I’m not that terrible,” Castiel protests mildly. 

“No,” Dean agrees, “you are not.”

They exchange an amused glance. “Would you do me the honour of a dance, then, Dean?” Castiel asks.

“Of course, my lord,” he replies, setting down his lemonade. “Provided Celeste can entertain herself without us for a few moments.”

Celeste sniffs and seats herself in a twirl of colourful skirts. “I am quite content to remain here,” she says. 

“Very well then.” Castiel extends his hand to Dean and leads him out onto the dance floor with a smile.

The music is slower, more intimate than it was during the last dance they shared. Or perhaps it just feels that way because Dean knows Castiel better now, knows the shape of his lips when he smiles and the line of his jaw when he laughs. They don’t speak, but they don’t need to.

Castiel’s hand is steady against Dean’s back, but as the dance goes on, it slides lower. Their bodies drift closer and closer together as if pulled by some invisible force, until Dean can feel the warmth of Castiel’s breath against his cheek and hear his heart pounding in his chest.

With a shock, Dean realizes that he’s hard in his trousers. He can’t recall the last time he felt genuine, unprompted desire. He licks his lips as they execute a complicated step, not daring to meet Castiel’s eyes. 

Until they spin around each other and then return, their bodies clasped tightly together, and Dean feels the hard line of Castiel’s own erection pressing against his thigh. 

Dean sucks in a startled breath and his eyes fly up to meet Castiel’s, which have gone wide in surprise and perhaps a hint of guilt. “Dean,” Castiel murmurs, stepping back slightly. “I…”

Dean doesn’t get the chance to find out what the rest of that sentence would be, because the music comes to an end, and Castiel pulls his hands away from Dean with alarming speed. He mumbles something under his breath and turns on his heel, leaving Dean standing, bewildered, in the middle of the floor.

He hears the whispers starting around them already, so he does his best to keep his pace steady as he rejoins Celeste at the other side of the room. She gives him a curious look. 

“Is Lord Castiel alright?” she asks.

Dean shrugs. “Perhaps the dancing turned his stomach.”

Celeste doesn’t look convinced. She glances at Dean again, and must read the tension in the set of his shoulders. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Dean tells her, forcing himself to smile. “Shall we dance?”

He’s distracted, and he steps on her toes more than once, but she doesn’t rebuke him for it. She just twirls around him, her red hair flying behind her, and eventually Dean’s smile becomes more genuine. Her energy is infectious, and by the time the dance ends, he feels a bit better. Certainly less aroused. Celeste is lovely, undeniably so, but Dean feels no attraction to her.

There’s a break in the dancing after that, so Dean escorts her back to the refreshment table, where she fills a small plate, declining to eat anything himself. They chat idly with others nearby, some of whom Dean recognizes from the ball at Lady Talbot’s, others he does not. Castiel remains conspicuously absent. 

Just as a servant comes around to take their empty glasses, Dean feels a hand on his shoulder and turns, hoping to see dark hair and bright blue eyes. But instead, he’s met with the amused smile and bright hair of Lady Abaddon. Dean cringes and bows as politely as he can manage.

“Good evening, my lady,” he says.

“Good evening,” she says, her eyes slowly tracing a path from his head to his feet. “You look well, my lord.”

“As do you,” he replies politely. It’s the truth: she’s intimidatingly beautiful in her fine gown, diamonds sparkling at her throat, but Dean desperately wishes she had never taken an interest in him. 

“Would you care to dance?”

He wants to say no. He doesn’t want to dance with her, doesn’t particularly want to dance with anyone other than Castiel or perhaps Celeste. But Zachariah’s reminder not to make enemies echoes in his mind, and he knows Lady Abaddon would be a formidable enemy indeed. So he nods and smiles and follows her back out onto the dance floor.

“I haven’t seen much of you,” she comments as they dance. “Which is a pity, really.”

“I find I am still rather intimidated by these large events,” Dean says as diplomatically as possible. 

“Or you prefer the company of others,” she says archly. “Others, such as Lord Castiel.”

Dean stumbles slightly and she laughs, her lips stretching wide. “Oh, did you think it was a secret?” 

“No,” Dean replies hastily. “Why should it be? He’s been nothing but kind to me.”

Lady Abaddon laughs again. “Poor, sweet child. You don’t know what you’re doing. Half of the people in this room would tear your eyes out for a chance to spend as much time with him as you do. He’s the most eligible bachelor in London, and suddenly you come along, and you have him taking you for rides in the park and trips to the museum?”

Dean flushes. He knows Castiel has taken a special interest in him, but he never considered how it might affect other unwed lords and ladies who had been hoping to court Castiel themselves.

“Some friendly advice? Consider long and hard if he’s worth it,” Abaddon whispers into Dean’s ear. “And if he isn’t….well, you know where to find me.”

Dean stammers a thank-you and twirls her around one more time, and then the song ends. He bows politely and rushes from the floor, more disturbed by what she’s said than he cares to allow her to see. 

A set of glass doors at the back of the room lead out onto a charming balcony overlooking the garden. Dean is glad to find it deserted, sinking onto the stone bench and letting the cool night breeze wash over him. 

He knew Castiel was considered quite the catch, but he never really thought about it until now. He wants to believe that Castiel will be happy someday, will find someone to love him the way he wants to be loved, but hearing Abaddon talk about the competition for his interest left a sinking feeling in Dean’s chest. What if Castiel never recovers from Dean leaving him, and accepts one of the many warm and willing bodies flung into his path? Falls into line with the schemes and alliances that he finds so distasteful?

Dean hates the very thought of it. He could bear to know Castiel was married to someone else if it was someone he truly loved, someone who truly loved him. But otherwise…

The doors push open, and Dean half-rises, preparing to awkwardly encounter some giggling couple sneaking out for an assignation. Instead, he’s met with the sight of Castiel, looking uncharacteristically nervous.

“Dean,” he says, and then stops.

“Yes, my lord?” Dean sits back down, leaving a clear space beside him on the bench. An invitation, as obvious as can be.

Castiel doesn’t take it. He paces back and forth, still avoiding Dean’s eyes. “Celeste said she saw you come out here. Are you feeling ill?”

“No.” Dean shakes his head. “Simply wanted some air.”

“Dancing with Lady Abaddon often has that effect,” Castiel remarks wryly. 

Was he there, watching them? Hidden in some dark corner, observing how Dean danced with someone other than himself? What thoughts would have been running through his head?

“I doubt you came out here to talk about her.”

Castiel laughs and comes to a stop at the railing, his back turned to Dean. “No.”

“Then what, my lord?”

It’s risky, pushing him like this. But sometimes, a little push is necessary. 

“Earlier. While we were dancing…”

So they aren’t going to ignore it, pretend it never happened. Good. 

“I apologize.” Castiel’s voice is low, and it’s difficult to hear him with his face turned away from Dean’s.

“For what? For what happened, or for the way you reacted upon realizing it?” Dean allows a touch of his hurt and confusion to creep into his voice. 

It works, because Castiel turns to look at him, distressed. “Both?” he says weakly.

This sweet, honourable, stupid man. Dean rises to his feet and takes a step closer to him. “I only wish an apology for one, and I think you can guess which.”

Castiel’s eyes are locked onto his, and he swallows, the movement of his throat incredibly distracting. “I should not...I should not have run from you, Dean. It was rude, and selfish, and cowardly.”

“Better,” Dean says, advancing on him once more. He’s almost close enough to touch, now. “Castiel…” He allows the name to become a caress, lingering over the syllables of it, enjoying the way it sounds in the quiet of the night air, the music from the ballroom a distant hum behind them.

This is what he’s supposed to do, Dean reminds himself. This is a seduction, is it not? He looks up at Castiel and reaches out, placing one hand on his shoulder. “Shall we dance again, my lord?”

Castiel’s hand settles on his back, sliding lower until it’s barely resting above the curve of Dean’s backside. His eyes search Dean’s face for any trace of hesitance, and Dean simply steps forward, bringing their bodies into perfect alignment. They sway for a few seconds, enjoying the closeness, and it isn’t long before Dean feels himself hardening. 

He knows Castiel must feel it too, because he goes suddenly, breathlessly still against him. They look at each other for one long moment, and then--

For all the times he’s been fucked, Dean can count on one hand the number of times he’s been kissed. It doesn’t offer much by way of comparison, but he knows deep in his bones that nothing, no amount of kissing could have prepared him for how good it feels to have Castiel’s lips pressed against his own. 

He opens his mouth on a sigh, and Castiel’s tongue slips inside. He holds Dean like he’s made of glass, but he kisses like he wants to devour him. The contrast sends shivers of delight running down Dean’s spine, and he slowly walks backwards until he’s pressed against the railing. This way, he thinks, there’s no chance he’ll fall, even if his increasingly weak knees give out on him. 

Castiel pulls away for a second and Dean murmurs a protest, drawing a laugh from him. He presses a sweet kiss to Dean’s forehead, then trails his mouth down the column of Dean’s neck, inquisitive and affectionate. Dean moans, a rather wanton sound, and is glad the music inside will prevent anyone from hearing them. 

He needs more contact, needs to feel more of Castiel. He fumbles with the buttons on his coat long enough to undo one and slips his hands inside, greedy for the feeling of Castiel’s skin under them. He traces over the muscles of Castiel’s abdomen, feeling the sharp cut of his hipbone before gripping tightly there, pressing them closer together yet.

Castiel swears under his breath, his mouth dragging hot and wet against the side of Dean’s neck. He returns his lips to Dean’s, nipping gently at them before sealing their mouths together once more.

It’s good. It’s so, so good, Dean can barely stand it. He feels as though he’s about to fly out of his own skin, the sensation only heightened when Castiel adjusts his stance slightly and Dean feels his erection rub against his own. He hisses and instinctively snaps his hips forward, seeking the relief of friction. 

“Dean,” Castiel says, face buried in the crook of Dean’s shoulder. “Dean…”

He tries to say his name, but it’s too much, and all that comes out is, “Cas…”

Perhaps it’s the shock of hearing his name shortened so intimately, but for whatever reason, Castiel steps back, breathing heavily. Dean blinks at him in confusion, wondering why they stopped. No one ever stops before reaching completion. That’s what they want, after all.

Castiel’s chest rises and falls with his breathing, his coat still unbuttoned and his shirt in disarray from Dean’s wandering hands. His lips are red and kiss-swollen, his hair dishevelled and his eyes bright. 

He’s the most beautiful thing Dean has ever seen.

“We shouldn’t,” Castiel says quietly.

It doesn’t matter that this is all supposed to be a game, that Dean is pretending to be someone he’s not. The rejection stings all the same. 

“Why not?” he challenges.

“I don’t mean--” Castiel sighs, running a hand over his face. “Someone could walk out here at any moment.”

Dean supposes he has a point. They were really rather lucky no one interrupted them before. 

“Then take me home,” he says coyly.

Castiel closes his eyes for a second, then opens them again, resolute. “No,” he says firmly. “Dean, you deserve better than--” 

“I’m no blushing virgin,” Dean says hotly. “You needn’t worry about my virtue.”

He never had any to begin with, and if he had, it would have been lost long ago.

A strange expression crosses Castiel’s face. “I know,” he says softly. “That much is obvious. But, Dean…”

He steps forward and tilts Dean’s chin up with a gentle finger. “There’s no sense pretending I don’t want you,” he says quietly. “I do. Very much. But I’m not interested in the temporary.”

Dean swallows nervously. This should be a moment of triumph for him, and yet he feels nothing but guilt. “And you think I am?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel replies, searching Dean’s face. “I’m not even sure you know.”

He’s right, though he’ll never know just how much so. Dean sighs and looks down, the very picture of a young man swept up in a passion he never expected and doesn’t quite know how to react to. 

Castiel kisses him again, gently this time. “I’d like to continue to see you,” he murmurs. “More of what we’ve done before.”

“Properly chaperoned, you mean,” Dean says with a trace of humour.

“It’s for the best,” Castiel states. He sounds as though he’s trying to convince himself as much as he is Dean.

Dean takes a deep breath and adjusts the collar of his coat, smoothing down his shirt. Castiel does the same, until they both look somewhat respectable again. 

“Is it better to return together, or separately?” Dean asks, looking towards the doors.

“I think they’ll talk either way,” Castiel replies. “They’re probably already noted our absence.”

Dean sighs deeply. “Very well,” he says, pushing the doors open, the light and music spilling out onto the balcony as he does.

A low murmur does follow them as they rejoin Celeste, still in her seat by the refreshment table. She gives them both scathing looks. “You left me alone for far too long,” she complains, but her eyes are inquisitive. Dean flushes under her gaze, and he’s certain that only adds to her interest. 

“Our apologies,” Castiel tells her. “My dear lady, please tell me how we may offer compensation for our rudeness.”

She laughs and nudges him in the arm. “Fetch me another lemonade.”

With a smile, Castiel does just that. Celeste gives Dean a sidelong look, and he does his best to project an air of innocence. Her eyebrows raise, but she offers no further comment.

“Well,” she says once Castiel has returned, “what an interesting night this has turned out to be.”

Dean nods his agreement. Interesting is perhaps not the word he would have chosen, but it’s accurate nonetheless. He and Castiel exchange small smiles over Celeste’s head, and then Dean looks away before his gaze goes too soft and she notices. He’s fairly certain she knows exactly what they were up to while they weren’t with her, but the longer he can keep it private to just them, the better.

He has Castiel exactly where he wants him, but the thought of saying as much to Uriel and Zachariah fills him with disgust. He wonders, stupidly, what it would be like if this weren’t a lie. If he really was a gentleman, if he really could move in these circles and attend these balls and have an actual chance at a life with Castiel. 

He doesn’t, though, and it will be be easier for him if he keeps that well in mind. He can enjoy this while it lasts-- and he’s still surprised by how much he did enjoy it, by how good it felt to have Castiel pressed against him like that, by how much he wanted him-- but it won’t last forever.


	6. Chapter 6

Dean doesn’t hear from Castiel for several days, and he begins to grow nervous, fearing that their kiss on the balcony may have had an adverse effect on their relationship. He sulks around Lord Zachariah’s house, feeling very much like a jilted lover, a feeling he is not accustomed to and finds he rather intensely dislikes. 

He’s curled up in his favourite spot in front of the window, not even paying much attention to the people passing on the street below, when he hears a knock on his chamber door. “Come in,” he calls out excitedly, practically leaping to his feet.

Alfie enters, looking slightly amused at Dean’s eagerness. “You have a visitor, my lord,” he says. 

“Thank you, Alfie.” Dean runs a nervous hand through his hair and makes sure his coat is properly buttoned. Alfie delicately reaches out and removes a stray thread from Dean’s shoulder, then smiles at him, satisfied.

In another life, Dean thinks, he and Alfie might have been friends. 

He finds Lord Castiel waiting for him in the parlour. It’s the first time they’ve seen one another since the ball at Lady Mildred’s, and Dean isn’t quite prepared for the emotional and physical reaction he has to seeing Castiel once more. 

Judging by the way Castiel seems unable to speak, the situation is mutual.

“Good evening, my lord,” Dean says eventually. 

“Good evening to you as well,” Castiel replies reflexively. Then he shakes his head and gives a little laugh. “How formal of me. It’s good to see you, Dean.”

His eyes are warm as he gazes at Dean from across the room, and Dean wants to cross the distance between them and throw himself into those arms, but he resists. 

“Do you have another adventure for me?” he asks instead.

“Indeed,” Castiel replies. “After you mentioned it as a possibility when we went to the museum, I thought perhaps you would like to go to the theatre.”

“The theatre?” Dean doesn’t bother to attempt to conceal his excitement. “That sounds wonderful.”

Castiel smiles widely. “Good. Shall we?”

Dean narrows his eyes in suspicion. “Does this involve putting our faith in your carriage once more?”

“I promise I’ve had it well-repaired,” Castiel assures him. “And the weather is fine today, so we should have no fears on that account.”

“Very well,” Dean sighs. He leads Castiel out of the parlour and into the hall, throwing a mischievous grin over his shoulder. “If it causes me injury again, I may insist on compensation.”

He sees Castiel’s eyes darken at his words, and Dean’s quite certain he knows exactly what sort of compensation he’s thinking of. 

“Good evening,” he says to Lady Celeste, who is waiting for them in the carriage. “I’m glad to see you once more.”

“Good evening,” she replies. “You look well.” 

She gives Dean a knowing look, and Dean feels himself flush. It’s not as though he and Castiel have tried particularly hard to be discreet, especially not with her, but he still feels somewhat self-conscious about her being so aware of the bond between them. 

“I wasn’t sure if you would prefer a comedy or a tragedy,” Castiel says as he enters the carriage and they set off towards Drury Lane. “The comedies are always enjoyable, but for the true London theatre experience, there’s nothing quite like the tragedies.”

For once, Dean feels adequately informed on the subject. They would spend long hours at the brothel discussing the most famous plays, even occasionally acting out bits and pieces to amuse themselves. He agrees with Castiel-- as much as he enjoyed hearing about the comedies, it would be quite the thrill to see one of the great tragedies performed on stage.

“What are we seeing?” he asks excitedly. 

“Hamlet,” Celeste answers, looking quite delighted at the prospect herself. “With the great Sarah Siddons playing Ophelia.”

“Celeste is quite fond of her,” Castiel whispers, causing Celeste to hit him quite soundly in the chest.

“She’s very talented,” Celeste protests. 

Castiel and Dean exchange amused glances. “I’m sure she is,” Dean says soothingly. 

They reach the theatre, but just as they exit the carriage, there’s a loud voice shouting Celeste’s name. Puzzled, Dean looks around to see a man pushing his way towards them. He starts to move protectively in front of Celeste, but she steps forward to meet the man, and Dean relaxes. She obviously knows him.

“My lady,” the man says with a slight bow. “Your wife has returned.”

“Gilda’s home?” Celeste asks delightedly. “Thank you, Miles. Oh, what an unexpected treat! My lords, I fear I must abandon you for the evening.”

Castiel smiles indulgently at her. “Go,” he says. “Welcome your wife home properly.”

Celeste laughs and winks at him rather lasciviously. “Oh, I shall.”

She gives them one last wave and disappears into the crowd, escorted by Miles, who Dean assumes is one of her household servants. 

“Well,” he says to Castiel. “It appears as though it shall be just you and I.”

“And the hundreds of other theatre-goers,” Castiel points out. 

Dean rolls his eyes fondly. “Yes, them as well. Come, let’s find our seats.”

They have quite a good view of the stage of from their places on the balcony, and Dean leans forward eagerly, taking it all in. Castiel watches him with an indulgent smile, not interrupting his careful examination of every detail. 

Dean recognizes several of the other audience members from the balls he’s attended so far, but he’s glad none of them are seated nearby so he isn’t forced to greet them. He wonders if Castiel deliberately chose these seats for that reason. 

The curtains go up, and the audience bursts into cheers. From the first line, Dean is captivated. The actors move across the stage with confidence and passion, their voices echoing around the lofty room, and Dean feels chills through his entire body at some of the more intense moments.

When they break between acts, Dean turns to Castiel. “Thank you,” he is all he manages to say.

Castiel glances quickly around at the people sitting near them, but no one is paying them any attention, too busy chatting about what they’ve seen. He reaches down between their seats and deliberately opens his hand in invitation.

Dean licks his lips and slides his own hand down to meet Castiel’s. He squeezes it lightly, then maintains his grip.

They keep their hands clasped throughout the rest of the performance.

Dean’s grip tightens during tense moments, and he feels Castiel look over at him, checking that he’s alright, but he never lets go of Dean’s hand. He runs his thumb soothingly over their joined hands when Ophelia’s drowning is described, and Dean finds himself desperately wishing they could stay here forever, hands held tightly in the dark against all the pain in the world.

When the play eventually comes to an end, the applause is raucous. Dean rises to his feet without thinking and joins in the cheers, Castiel applauding with slightly more restraint beside him. 

The line to exit the theatre is long, so they remain in their seats for a few moments, waiting until the crowd has dispersed. 

“I take it you enjoyed it, then?” Castiel asks.

“It was wonderful,” Dean replies dreamily. He’ll remember this night for the rest of his life, he thinks.

“I’m so pleased to hear you say that.” They stopped holding hands when Dean required both of his to clap with, but their knees are just barely brushing against each other, even that slight point of contact making Dean flutter with desire he’s unlikely to find fulfilled.

“You’ve done so much for me,” Dean says quietly. He knows he’s already thanked Castiel for his generosity, but it doesn’t seem like enough. He doubts it will ever feel like enough. “I don’t know how to repay you.”

“You don’t have to,” Castiel replies. He shifts ever so slightly in his seat so there’s greater contact between them. “The more time I spend with you, the more time I wish to spend with you. It’s a reward in itself, Dean.”

Dean is used to people wanting to spend time with him. Of course, that time is not usually devoted to going to the park, or the museum, or the theatre, or any activity that involves keeping his clothes on. It still catches him off-guard, the way Castiel wants _him_ , not just his body. 

“You’re too good to me,” he mumbles. Dean doesn’t deserve any of this. If Castiel knew the truth...but no. He never will. It’s not part of the plan, and Dean has to keep to the plan.

“I don’t believe there could be such a thing.” Castiel’s eyes linger on Dean’s face like a caress. 

The theatre is slowly emptying out, and there’s no real reason for them to delay leaving any longer. Castiel clears his throat and stands. “We should go.”

Dean nods and joins him. Castiel clasps him by the elbow so they won’t be separated as they maneuver through the crowd, and his touch is both warm and steadying. 

The night is warm, but not unpleasantly so, and Castiel gives Dean a considering look as they approach the carriage. “I know how much you distrust my poor friend here,” he says, running a hand over one of the wheels. “Perhaps, if you’re amenable, I might walk you home instead.”

It’s clear Castiel doesn’t wish the night to end quite yet either. A slow smile spreads across Dean’s face. “I think that might be a wise course of action,” he agrees. 

Castiel takes a moment to hold a hushed conversation with his coachman, then returns to Dean with a pleased expression on his face. “It’s a beautiful night for a walk,” he says as they set off.

“I didn’t think fine folk like yourself considered walking an acceptable form of transportation,” Dean says, perhaps more archly than he intended. But his disdain can easily be explained as that of a country lord for the more sedate lifestyles of city-dwellers, so he doesn’t worry about it too much. 

Castiel just gives him a sidelong look and shrugs. “I’ve been told many of my habits are not considered acceptable by society at large,” he says. “I’ve never really cared to change them.”

They haven’t mentioned the story Castiel told him, about his father and his brothers, since the night Dean spent at his house. Dean wonders if he’s allowed to make reference to it, and decides he might as well try.

“Because you never thought you’d inherit?” he asks tentatively.

“Precisely.” Judging by his tone, Castiel isn’t at all bothered by Dean’s question. “I was...indulged, as a child, you might say. Never treated with the pressure placed on an heir. It never mattered if I was a bit of an odd child, since nobody expected anything of me. And by the time I realized I would inherit, well, it would have taken far too much time and effort to break me of my habits.”

“I’m glad,” Dean says.

Castiel gives him a questioning look, so Dean hurries to explain himself. “I only meant that I think it would be sad, had you been forced to give up parts of yourself in order to assume your father’s title.”

“Oh, in some ways I did,” Castiel says with a grimace. “The social obligations, for one, force me to give up a great deal of my solitude. But there are certain things that I will not change.”

“Such as walking,” Dean says.

“It seems a small thing, I know,” Castiel replies. “But it carries some significance. It’s self-reliance, rather than depending on someone else. The freedom to move about the city in plain sight, the freedom to choose your own route through the streets.”

“I understand,” Dean says softly. He knows a great deal about the allure of freedom, after all. It’s what brought him into this mess in the first place.

Castiel smiles at him, and his hand brushes lightly against Dean’s. There’s still too many people out and about to risk holding hands again, but his touch is reassuring despite being brief. 

Before meeting Castiel, Dean had always assumed that wealth and power were guarantees of both agency and happiness. It isn’t nearly the same as the lack of choice he’s dealt with, he’s well aware of that, but he’s nevertheless surprised at how much he empathizes with the way Castiel chafes at the restrictions of his status. Fine clothes and fine houses are kinder cages than those Dean is accustomed to, but cages nonetheless. 

He’s found himself a way out, if all goes well. He wonders if Castiel ever will.

“We should return to the park on foot next time,” Dean suggests. “Try another path. I’m sure there’s much more of it than I have not yet seen.”

“I would like that very much,” Castiel replies. “There are other parks, as well. Other places we have yet to explore.”

They’re talking about a future Dean can’t be certain of, but he wants so badly to indulge the fantasy. He wants to make plans with Castiel, to seem him more often, to spend long hours with him no matter what they’re doing, even dancing at balls under the curious eyes of Castiel’s peers.

“Dean…” Castiel’s voice is quiet, but he sounds almost nervous. “There’s something I wish to discuss with you.”

A sinking feeling hovers in the pit of Dean’s stomach. He’s fairly certain he knows what Castiel is about to say, and he isn’t sure he’s prepared for that conversation quite yet.

Castiel turns his head towards him, but doesn’t slow his pace. He takes a deep breath before continuing. “I know you didn’t come to London in search of marriage,” he says slowly. “I know this is all very unexpected. It is for me, as well. The night we first met, I thought you one of the most handsome men I’d ever seen, but I was surprised at how much I enjoyed your company as well. Especially,” he gives Dean a rueful look, “considering who your cousin is.”

The joke at Zachariah’s expense lessens the tension somewhat, and Dean is able to offer a small laugh. 

“I’m in no rush to wed,” Castiel continues. “Despite what the gossips would have you believe, twenty-seven is far from the oldest anyone in my position has been. I promised myself from a young age that I would only marry when it felt right, when I met the right person, not because I felt forced to do so to please others. Too many fanciful stories, I suppose, giving me all sorts of ideas.”

Dean has already heard this somewhat from Uriel and Zachariah, but it’s different, hearing Castiel say it himself.

Castiel stops and looks at Dean, his eyes wide and solemn. “We haven’t known each other long, Dean, I’m aware. But I’ve never…” He looks down for a second, then gathers his courage and looks at Dean once more. “I’ve never felt this way before, Dean. It’s so much more than a mere passion of the body.”

Dean wonders at that, for a moment. If passions of the body are something Castiel is well-acquainted with. That kiss on the balcony was not the kiss of someone to whom passion was unknown. He wonders who Castiel has kissed before, and yet not felt true romantic connection for. It’s none of his business, though. 

He thinks he should probably make some reply, but he doesn’t know what to say. So he just continues looking at Castiel, hoping that his silence will be interpreted as a prompt to go on. 

Castiel glances quickly around the street. It’s quieter here, and they’re standing in a shadowed alcove where they’re unlikely to be seen. He reaches down and takes one of Dean’s hands between both of his. 

“I never wish to pressure you, or make you feel you owe me anything,” he says softly. “I’m not asking you for an answer just yet. But I felt compelled to speak. To tell you how much you’ve come to mean to me.”

Dean stares down at their joined hands. He bites his lip, and Castiel smiles at him, a little sadly.

“Should I not have spoken?” he asks. “Is this too much already?”

“No, it isn’t that,” Dean says. “I’m...happy, with what you’ve said.”

“But?” Castiel asks, resigned. His shoulders have slumped and he looks like he’s preparing for a blow. Dean’s heart breaks for him. He can fix this now, but this is only a preview of what Castiel will feel when Dean truly does leave him. And like a coward, Dean won’t be there to watch when that does happen.

“But you were right, when you said I didn’t come to London seeking a partner,” Dean continues. “I admit, I’m quite overwhelmed.”

“And that’s why I don’t expect anything from you,” Castiel assures him. “I merely felt I could no longer see you without making my feelings known. It would be...dishonourable, to pretend I only sought your friendship.”

Dean almost laughs. Dishonourable indeed. As dishonourable as pretending to be a gentleman? He doubts Castiel has a less than honourable bone in his body. It only makes him more attractive to Dean. 

“I feel more than friendship towards you as well,” Dean says, lifting their hands to rest against his chest. “But I haven’t spoken to my family about a potential match, and we’ve only just met, and well, my cousin is not terribly fond of you…”

Castiel laughs gently. “As if I would allow him to come between us.”

He already has, Dean thinks to himself. Zachariah has cast a shadow on their relationship this entire time, but only Dean knows it.

“And as for your other fears, we still have time. I would like to continue to see you, Dean, much as we have been, but with the clear understanding that it is a prelude to a possible courtship.”

Ah, and there it is: one of the two words Dean knows will be enough to persuade Uriel and Zachariah that his task is complete. Marriage or courtship. A declaration of feeling or intent. His stomach turns over, but he keeps his expression serene.

“I think,” he says, “that would be acceptable to me.”

Castiel beams at him with such happiness that Dean can’t help smiling back.

“You’ve no idea how pleased I am to hear that,” Castiel murmurs. 

“I have some idea,” Dean replies.

He feels reckless, his own feelings for Castiel threatening to burst free. But if they do, he fears the truth will come spilling out right alongside them, and he can’t risk that. So he can’t use his words. Words are dangerous.

Dean leans forward and kisses Castiel. He knows it won’t be long before he has to leave him. Before he has to betray him. And it’s terrible and selfish of him to need this before then, but he pours all his unspoken words into the kiss: _I’m sorry_. _I care for you, more than I ever thought I could care for anyone again_. _Forgive me for what I will do to you_.

Castiel freezes for a moment, clearly surprised by Dean’s reaction, but soon enough his hands come up to wrap around Dean’s waist and he returns the kiss with equal enthusiasm. Dean’s doesn’t allow it to go as far as he did on the balcony, though. It’s passionate, but lacking that edge of desperate urgency. It’s a kiss that feels like a promise, like something to build upon.

Something Dean will have to tear down and leave to crumble behind him.

He pulls away reluctantly after a few minutes, and Castiel doesn’t protest. He just keeps smiling at Dean like he’s the happiest man in the world.

“I should be getting back,” Dean says. “I don’t wish to try my cousin’s patience again so soon.”

Castiel laughs at that and lets go of Dean’s hand. “Very well,” he says.

It isn’t long before they arrive in front of Lord Zachariah’s house. Dean looks up at Castiel, admiring the way the shadows play over his cheekbones in the dim light. 

“Goodnight, my lord,” he says softly.

Castiel leans forward and presses the briefest of kisses to Dean’s lips. “Goodnight, Dean. I’ll call on you again soon.”

“I look forward to it.” Dean gives him one last wave and climbs the steps, pausing at the top to look back at him. Castiel lifts his hand in farewell, and then Dean closes the door behind him, removing him from sight.

Before he truly has a chance to absorb the enormity of what’s just happened, Zachariah appears in the hall, eyeing Dean with interest. 

“I saw Castiel outside,” he says. “Escorted you home, did he?”

“Yes,” Dean says shortly. He looks at Zachariah and all he feels is disgust. Disgust at this petty, cruel man, and his petty, cruel scheme for revenge. And disgust at himself for agreeing to it, for not being strong enough to sacrifice his own happiness in exchange for Castiel’s. 

“He wants to court me.” It feels strange, saying the words aloud. Like it makes the situation more real, somehow.

“Excellent.” Zachariah’s smile is wide and oily. “And you let him know this would not be unwanted, I assume?”

“Yes.”

“Perfect. Oh, Dean, you’ve done so well. Not much longer now. Let him think he truly has a chance, let him believe you’ll truly be his, and then it will be time. He will be devastated, and you will be free.”

Dean winces. He knows that’s the eventual outcome of their plan, but hearing it said so bluntly, like a thing to be desired, leaves him feeling both guilty and enraged. 

“Yes,” he says coldly. “And you’ll be happy. Or as happy as a man like you can be.”

Zachariah raises an eyebrow at him. “You truly think you’re any better than me?” he asks. “What are you, really? A whore playing at being a lord. No virtue, no morals, nothing but a desire for self-preservation and the gift of a pretty face, your only advantage in this world. Don’t presume to cast judgment on my character, boy. You are as low in the muck as I am, and you know it.”

It’s nothing Dean hasn’t already thought himself a thousand times. He gives a mocking bow and retreats to his chamber, flopping heavily onto his bed.

Only a few more days.


	7. Chapter 7

Only a day later, there’s a familiar knock on Dean’s chamber door. He leaps up from his spot at the window and greets Alfie with an excited smile. “Let me guess,” he says. “I have a visitor.”

“Yes, my lord,” Alfie replies in good humour. “You’re getting quite popular.”

“Must be my charming disposition.” Dean winks at him and is pleased when Alfie laughs. He’s glad they’ve become friendly enough for this kind of joking.

He bounds down the stairs, eager to see Castiel again so soon. Their visits are usually more spread apart than this, but he’s not entirely surprised that Castiel would come to see him again, considering their last conversation. 

When he enters the parlour, however, it isn’t Castiel waiting for him, but Celeste.

He’s no less excited to see her, though it’s excitement of a different sort entirely. “Good afternoon, my lady,” he says with a small bow. “What a pleasant surprise.”

Her answering smile is tight and strained. Dean frowns and waves her towards a chair, but she shakes her head and remains standing, her arms clasped tightly around her middle.

“Is something wrong?” he asks tentatively. The last time he saw Celeste, she’d been running home to greet her long-absent wife. He hopes nothing has happened to Gilda. Though he’s never met her, he feels fond of her by extension of his friendship with Celeste.

Celeste exhales deeply. “Yes,” she says. “Damn it.”

Dean has never heard her curse before. He takes a step forward, looking to comfort her, but she holds up a hand to stop him.

“Gilda returned home from her travels,” she says.

“Yes, I know. I was there when you left to welcome her back.”

Celeste turns away. “On her way home, she took a tour through Derbyshire.”

A slow feeling of dread creeps through Dean’s body, but he forces his voice to remain steady. “How lovely. I hope she enjoyed her visit.”

“She did.” Celeste looks at him once more, her eyes hard. “I’ve told her about you, you know. In our letters. How much I’ve been enjoying your company these past few weeks, how happy I was to have made a new friend in her absence.”

“Celeste…” 

“No.” She shakes her head firmly. “It’s not your turn to speak, not yet.”

Dean falls silent under her fierce words. He feels unsteady on his feet, and braces himself with a hand against the wall.

“Naturally, she was curious about this new friend of mine. She asked around the entire region, and no one has heard of you, _Mr. Dean Winchester_ , nor of your family.”

He almost laughs. His carefully constructed lies have so easily been undone. And all in the spirit of goodwill and friendship. 

“So tell me, Dean, if that even is your name. If you are not a young country lord from Derbyshire, then who the bloody hell are you?” 

Dean has never heard her voice so cold, nor seen her stand so straight and proud. He’s rather intimidated, in all honesty. 

He knows he should lie. He should find some excuse, find some way to explain himself that doesn’t risk his entire venture. But beneath Celeste’s righteous anger, he glimpses her hurt and her betrayal. No matter how dishonest he has been with her, she’s his friend, and she deserves the truth.

Or at least part of it.

He takes a deep breath before launching into his story. It’s not lying, he tells himself. It’s just omitting certain details.

“I’m nobody,” he says, and that’s no lie. “I’m not a lord, I have no estate, I’m not from Derbyshire or anywhere else distant and rustic. I’ve lived in London my whole life.”

“You’re not Lord Zachariah’s cousin, then?” Celeste asks, her eyes narrowing.

“No.” That, at least, Dean can be proud of. “We’re not related.”

“Then what have you been doing living in his house these past weeks?” A look of distaste crosses her face. “Oh, lord, you’re not his lover, are you?”

“No!” Dean exclaims. “No.” What a disgusting thought.

“Then who are you?” Celeste asks again, clearly frustrated. “What do you want?”

Dean sighs heavily and takes a seat. Celeste remains standing, glaring at him from across the room.

“Lord Zachariah hired me to play the role of his country-bred cousin,” he explains quietly. “I’m sure you’re well-aware of the tension between he and Lord Castiel. Zachariah wanted me to seduce Castiel, and then break his heart, as revenge for how Castiel hurt his sister years ago.”

Celeste stares at him for a moment. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

A faint smile tugs at Dean’s lips. “That was my immediate reaction as well.”

“Why on Earth would you agree to such a plan?”

Dean shrugs. “Money,” he says simply.

Celeste gives him a calculating look. “I would not have guessed you to be the type so easily swayed by riches, but then, I don’t truly know you at all, do I.”

Dean wishes he could be the person Celeste thought he was. He wishes it more than anything else in the world. “I’m sorry,” he says. 

“Castiel doesn’t know, does he?” she asks. 

Dean shakes his head. “Of course not.”

“When were you going to tell him?” She’s getting angry again, Dean notes. “When he makes you an offer of marriage? Or not until the day of the wedding?”

“Never,” he mumbles indistinctly. “He wasn’t supposed to know.”

“Then how are you planning on breaking his heart?”

Dean shrugs. “I disappear. Go back to my old life. Leave him never knowing what happened.”

Celeste stares at him, her expression horrified. “How could you contemplate such a cruel thing?” she whispers. 

He could tell her everything. Tell her exactly what kind of life he’s led all these years. Tell her how badly he needs this money so he can finally escape it. Tell her how much he hates himself for allowing things to go this far. 

But he doesn’t think he could bear to see the look of horror on her face if she learned that truth. The most filthy, unvarnished version of himself, it’s not for her to know. 

He looks away. “I wish I never had. But it’s too late now.”

“No.” Celeste’s voice is firm, and she comes closer. “It’s too late to prevent Castiel from falling in love with a greedy, grasping, heartless piece of scum like yourself, that’s true.”

Dean flinches at her words, though they’re exactly what he deserves.

“But it’s not too late to prevent the kind of heartbreak you plan to inflict upon him.”

Dean frowns at her, unsure of her meaning. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that if you don’t tell him the truth, exactly what you’ve told me, then I will.”

Somehow, Dean never expected that response. He tenses, but makes no reply.

“If you don’t tell Castiel who you are, why you’re doing what you’re doing, and just how much you’ve betrayed his kindness and his trust these past weeks, I will do it myself,” she continues. “He’s a good man. The best man I know, really. He deserves the world, and all he’s ever wanted is someone to love him for himself and not for his wealth or power. He thought he found that in you. But it turns out you’re just as motivated by wealth as the rest of them.”

Her voice breaks towards the end of her speech, and Dean shrinks further into his chair. 

“You may send me a note when it’s done,” she says, crossing the room towards the door. “I’ll confirm with Castiel afterwards, of course. He’ll likely be in need of a good friend. But don’t you dare approach me. I never wish to speak to you again.”

Dean just nods stiffly.

With her hand on the door, Celeste turns and looks at him one last time. “I hope it’s worth it,” she says viciously. “I hope your money fills the hole in your chest where your heart is clearly absent.”

Dean closes his eyes, unable to bear the look on her face. He hears the parlour door close, and then a few seconds later, the heavy outer door closes as well. 

There are tears threatening to spill down his cheeks, but he wills them to stop. It’s a skill he’s employed many times before. Now is not the time for tears, no matter how badly it hurt to have Celeste use such words against him, to have her look at him with such disdain.

He needs a plan.

He doesn’t doubt Celeste will go to Castiel with the truth if he does not. She’s fiercely protective of him, and she wouldn’t make a claim she didn’t intend to support. But if either of them tell Castiel who Dean truly is, it will jeopardize the bargain he’s made with Zachariah and Uriel, and Dean will be left with nothing.

Maybe it will be worth it, he thinks. Maybe the tattered scraps of his honour and dignity that he’ll maintain after doing the right thing will be enough to sustain him when he’s forced to go back to Crowley’s. Forced to go back to that tiny room and that creaking bed and the men who pay to fuck him there. 

The parlour door swings open, and for a brief moment, Dean thinks perhaps Celeste has returned. But it’s only Zachariah, Uriel following close behind him.

“Was that Castiel who just left?” Zachariah asks with a frown. “Rather a brief visit, was it not?”

Dean shakes his head. “No, it was Lady Celeste.”

Something in his tone must give away his distress, because Uriel looks at him sharply. “What did she want?”

“Just to talk,” Dean says evasively.

“I don’t believe you. What did she want to talk about?”

Uriel’s tone is threatening, and Zachariah is looking at Dean with keen suspicion, and he’s overwhelmed by how quickly everything has fallen apart.

“She knows,” he murmurs. “She knows I’m not who I say I am.”

Zachariah draws in a startled breath. “How?” he demands.

“Her wife was traveling in Derbyshire, made enquiries, discovered the truth,” Dean says bitterly. “Celeste confronted me about it. She’s going to tell Lord Castiel the truth if I don’t.”

“How could you be so foolish as to allow this!” Uriel snaps. “You should have found a way to lie to her.”

“It’s rather hard to do that when you’ve been taken completely by surprise,” Dean replies heatedly. He will not be blamed for this. 

“We’ll have to pay her to keep quiet,” Zachariah says slowly. “Dean, you’ll have to disappear sooner than we planned, but I think it will hurt Castiel enough to be satisfactory. We just can’t risk Celeste telling him the truth and turning his grief to rage.”

“She won’t take your bribes,” Dean tells him, somewhat proudly. “She’s better than that.”

“She’s better than you, you mean,” Uriel sneers. 

Dean agrees. Celeste would never allow her honor to be bought, even if she were in circumstances as difficult as Dean’s. 

“We can’t kill her,” Zachariah murmurs. “She’s too well-known, too well-liked. People will take notice.”

Dean’s blood turns to ice. He never considered how admitting his deception would put Celeste in harm’s way. And yet Zachariah and Uriel are calmly discussing her murder like it’s of no real concern to them whether she lives or dies, so long as she doesn’t interfere with their plan.

“Perhaps,” Uriel says thoughtfully. “But she doesn’t have to die in order to be made afraid of death.”

Zachariah raises an eyebrow at him, intrigued.

“Her wife travels a lot. Would be a shame if she were to be set upon by thieves on one of those journeys, beaten and robbed and left for dead,” Uriel says smoothly. 

“It could work,” Zachariah muses. “All of London knows how much Lady Celeste loves her wife. Keeping her safe might be the only thing that would come before her devotion to Lord Castiel.”

“You can’t,” Dean protests weakly. “If you aren’t willing to take the risk of simply murdering Celeste, you won’t take the risk of having her wife killed either.”

“Yes, well, Lady Celeste doesn’t need to know that, does she?” Zachariah’s smile has returned to his face. “I daresay we’ll be convincing enough. She’ll be too worried about her beloved Gilda’s safety to go running off to Castiel to tell him you’re not who you say you are.”

Dean’s head is spinning with all of their schemes and counter-schemes. “And Castiel?” he dares to ask. “If Celeste will be persuaded not to reveal my true identity, perhaps I do not need to abandon him so soon.”

“The boy has a point,” Uriel says, though it sounds like it pains him to agree with Dean. “If we’re confident that Lady Celeste will keep her mouth shut, we might risk a little while longer, in order to make the betrayal all the worse when it inevitably comes.”

Dean doesn’t want the betrayal to be worse. He doesn’t want to betray Castiel at all. But he needs Uriel and Zachariah to believe he’s still fully cooperating with their plan. 

He isn’t, though. He made up his mind the second he heard Uriel propose murdering Celeste in cold blood. He doesn’t care what happens to him anymore, he will not allow any harm to come to her, or to Castiel. 

They’ve given him so much in the short time they’ve known each other. True friendship and affection, the likes of which he’s never known. Dean can do this for them. He can sacrifice his own happiness, his own freedom, in order to keep them alive and well. 

“Yes,” Lord Zachariah agrees. “Perhaps a few more days. A week, at most. I imagine he’ll want to see you frequently, now that he’s announced his intention to court you.”

“I imagine so,” Dean replies steadily.

Zachariah nods. “You’re being rather calm about this,” he notes. “Not having second thoughts, I hope?”

“Of course not,” Dean says hastily. “I’m concerned, of course. If this doesn’t go according to your plan…”

“You end up back where we found you,” Uriel finishes. “Exactly. Don’t ever forget that.”

“I won’t,” Dean murmurs. “Never.”

“Good.” Zachariah claps his hands together. “I think, considering that Castiel has declared his intent, it would be best if I were to act as your chaperone on all your future outings, rather than Lady Celeste.”

Dean’s heart sinks even further in his chest. He had been counting on having some time alone with Castiel, an opportunity to tell him the truth. Or at the very least, hoping that Celeste would somehow forget herself and reveal what she now knows about Dean, prompting him to come clean. If Zachariah is always with him, he’ll have no chance of implementing this plan.

“That seems a natural progression,” he says carefully. “I think Castiel would be pleased to know I’m taking his advances so seriously.”

“Indeed,” Zachariah says with a sharp smile. “And just when he thinks he truly has a chance at happiness, you will disappear, just as we discussed.”

Dean bows his head. He hopes it will pass as acceptance, when in truth he feels he needs to hide his face lest his emotions become visible. 

“Look at me.” Uriel’s voice is sharp. Dean winces and obeys.

“I don’t trust him,” Uriel mutters. “He’s planning something.”

Zachariah waves a dismissive hand. “He can’t do anything. He’ll remain here under my supervision at all times, and when he does see Castiel, it will also be under my supervision. There have been unexpected complications, yes, but I think our way forward is clear.”

Uriel grumbles a bit more, but eventually settles under Zachariah’s stern gaze. Dean shifts his weight from side to side, still tense. His mind is racing with all his possible options. He has no chance of getting out of this with his life and his freedom intact, he knows. He simply has to find a way to minimize the damage to Castiel and Celeste.

If he can just ensure that Zachariah does not suspect his lack of cooperation, Dean thinks he has a plan.

“Well then,” Zachariah says with a broad grin. “It’s time for dinner. Come along, Uriel.”

He claps the other man on the back and leads him from the room. Just as he’s about to exit, he pauses and looks back at Dean.

“By the way,” he says, “you should know that if things do not go as planned, I will hold you personally responsible for our failure. And unlike Castiel or Lady Celeste, no one will miss you if you end up with your throat slit.”

He closes the door behind him, leaving Dean stunned into silence.

He shouldn’t be surprised, really. Zachariah and Uriel made it clear from the beginning that the only reason they hesitated to simply have Castiel killed was due to their own fears of being caught, not due to any moral objection to murder. And Zachariah is correct: unlike Castiel and Celeste, he is expendable. If anyone asked after him, Zachariah could easily lie and say he had returned to the country, and no one would doubt him.

Well, Dean thinks somewhat hysterically, it’s good to know where he stands, at least.

He returns to his chamber in a bit of a daze, curling up in the bed that has become familiar to him over the past weeks. A few hours pass, the sky gradually darkening outside his window, and eventually there’s a tentative knock at his door.

“Come in,” he calls, his voice muffled by the pillows surrounding him.

Alfie enters the room, a concerned look on his face. “You didn’t come down for dinner,” he says. “Would you like something brought up to you?”

Dean doesn’t feel hungry. He fears anything he eats will only make him sick. He shakes his head stubbornly, but Alfie doesn’t leave.

“Are you feeling ill?” he asks, approaching the bed with a hand outstretched like he wants to take Dean’s temperature. 

Dean flinches away from his touch, and Alfie frowns. “Something’s wrong,” he says. “Please, my lord, how can I help?”

“I’m not your lord,” Dean mumbles. “Not a lord at all.”

Alfie cocks his head to the side, his expression inquisitive. “Now why would you say that?”

“It’s the truth.” Dean throws the covers back and sits up. “I’m just a whore Zachariah employed in a mad scheme for revenge. You don’t need to worry yourself over me, Alfie. I’m not worth it.”

“You’re a--” Alfie looks rather shocked, and under any other circumstances, Dean would probably be amused.

“It doesn’t matter,” Alfie says after a moment. “You’ve been kind to me. Allow me to do the same for you.”

“You can’t do anything,” Dean says despairingly. “I can’t even do anything.”

“What do you need?” Alfie asks. His eyes are determined. “I promise, I’ll help you in any way that I can.”

Looking at him, Dean feels the tiniest spark of hope. Having an ally makes his entire task seem less daunting, somehow. “I need to get out of here,” he says quietly. “I have to see Lord Castiel without Zachariah knowing.”

Alfie nods, his brow creased in concentration. “They’re still at dinner,” he informs Dean. “They’ve had quite a bit to drink. If I take you out the servants’ stairs and out through the kitchens…”

“They’ll notice I’ve gone, though, won’t they?” Dean says, slumping back against the pillows. “They’re suspicious. Zachariah will come to check on me.”

Alfie shakes his head, a wry smile on his lips. “No,” he corrects Dean, “he’ll send me to check on you. And I’ll tell him all is well.”

“Alfie, no,” Dean protests immediately. “If he finds out you’ve lied to him, he’ll dismiss you. Or worse.”

“So we’ll fake it,” Alfie says, unruffled. “Pile the pillows and blankets on the bed in a way that makes it appears as though you’re sleeping. When he sends me to check on you, I’ll report that you were asleep and didn’t respond to me. In the morning, I’ll apologize, say I was tricked. He won’t suspect a thing.”

“But how can you be sure?” Dean doesn’t wish to involve anyone else in this plot. He doesn’t wish to risk anyone else’s well-being.

“Zachariah doesn’t understand kindness, or concern,” Alfie says bitterly. “He would never guess that I would care to help you. He’ll think me a fool, but an honest fool.”

Dean chews nervously at his lip, and then nods. Alfie is right. Zachariah has no idea how friendly they’ve become, would never think there was any reason to suspect Alfie. He’ll be safe.

He swings himself out of the bed and begins throwing a few things into a small bag-- what’s left of the money Zachariah had given him for expenses, a few pairs of warm socks. Alfie rummages through the wardrobe and finds some simple, dark clothing for Dean to wear, things that won’t attract attention. 

He takes one last look around the room and then turns to Alfie and nods. “Let’s go.”

They creep quietly through the hall and down the servants’ staircase. Alfie goes ahead and waits until the kitchen is clear, then beckons Dean forward. He can hear Zachariah and Uriel laughing in the dining room, and his heart pounds loudly in his chest. Alfie keeps one hand on Dean’s elbow, guiding him and steadying him at the same time. 

They emerge into the alley behind the house, and Dean gasps for breath. Alfie silently passes him the bag, his face solemn. 

“Good luck, Dean,” he says.

Dean catches him by the shoulder, and after a moment’s hesitation, embraces him. Alfie returns the gesture, and then Dean steps back. “Thank you,” he says hoarsely. “For everything.”

He turns and makes his way down the alley. He stops and looks back only once, and Alfie lifts his hand in a farewell before turning and going back inside the house.

Dean takes a deep breath and sets out towards Castiel’s house at a quick pace. This will not be pleasant, he knows, but he owes it to Castiel to tell him the truth. 

No matter the consequences for Dean.


	8. Chapter 8

Predictably, it begins to rain before Dean has made it halfway to Castiel’s house. Cursing London’s weather, he increases his pace, knowing he’ll be drenched by the time he arrives no matter how quickly he walks. 

Perhaps Castiel will be moved to pity him somewhat in this wretched state, despite Dean’s betrayal.

He arrives at Castiel’s door, shivering, and knocks heavily. After only a moment, it swings open and Hannah’s face peers out at him. “Lord Dean?” she says, clearly surprised to see him. “Please, do come in out of the rain. This is an unexpected pleasure.”

Dean gives her a shaky smile. “Thank you, Hannah,” he says. “I’m sorry to disturb you like this. Is Lord Castiel at home?”

“Yes, of course,” Hannah says. She ushers him into the parlour. “I’ll bring you a towel and some tea, and then inform him that you’re here.”

“Thank you,” he says.

She returns a few minutes later with the promised items, then disappears again, presumably to tell Castiel that he’s here. Dean takes a sip of the tea to warm himself, then dries himself off as best as he can, wiping the worst of the moisture from his face, neck, and hair. 

He’s just rubbing it over his hands when the parlour door opens and Castiel enters, a look of surprise on his face. “Dean?” he says. “I’m delighted to see you, of course, but what are you doing here at this hour?”

Dean freezes, the towel clutched loosely in his hands, drawing Castiel’s attention to it. He frowns and takes another step into the room. 

“Did you walk here? Dean, what’s going on?”

He sounds so concerned that Dean has to bite his lip to prevent his tears from falling. He will not cry. He will not.

“You’re scaring me.” Castiel’s hand closes gently on Dean’s elbow as he tries to guide him to a chair, but Dean shakes his head and refuses to be moved.

“There’s something we need to discuss,” he says, not meeting Castiel’s eyes.

“Something so important you had to rush here at this hour? In the rain?” Castiel still looks worried, but there’s a hint of gentle teasing in his tone. 

“Yes,” Dean replies.

“Very well.” Castiel drops into one of the comfortable chairs and gives Dean his full attention. “What do we need to discuss?”

He clearly has no idea what to expect. How could he? Why would it ever cross his mind that Dean is about to hurt him in one of the worst ways imaginable?

“Before anything else,” he begins, “let me say I’m sorry. I’m sorry for all of this.”

Castiel frowns, but Dean holds up a hand to stop him before he can speak. “Please, just let me get this all out.”

There’s a fine line between Castiel’s eyebrows, but he nods and remains silent.

Well, there’s no sense delaying any further. Dean takes a deep breath and begins. “I’m not really Lord Zachariah’s cousin,” he says bluntly. “I’m not from Derbyshire, I’m not a lord, I have no money, no inheritance, no family or connections.”

The line on Castiel’s brow deepens, but he still doesn’t say anything. If he did, Dean doesn’t think he would have the courage to continue. Especially not with this, the hardest truth to reveal.

“I’m no one at all, really,” he says quietly. “Just a common London whore.”

Castiel twitches slightly, his lips moving in an aborted movement to speak, his eyes going wide. His face looks pale in the flickering candlelight, and Dean knows there’s no going back from this point. Castiel is lost to him now. 

“Zachariah and Uriel hired me to pretend to be a gentleman, to seduce you. To make you fall in love with me, so I could break your heart the way you broke Rachel’s.”

“Rachel,” Castiel repeats, finally breaking his silence. “I haven’t thought about Rachel in years. Why would--”

Dean keeps speaking, determined to finish his tale. “They offered me enough money to get out, to start a new life far away, to never have to go back to selling my body in order to live. It seemed worth it, at the time.”

He lets out a little laugh that may be more of a sob. “And then I met you, and I found you the kindest, most generous, most wonderful man I’ve ever known. I didn’t want to do it anymore, you must believe me, but I was weak and selfish and cared more about my own freedom than anything else.”

Finally, he raises his head to look at Castiel. “Celeste discovered the truth,” he confesses. “Gilda was in Derbyshire and found no one who knew of me or my supposed family. Celeste confronted me about it earlier today. She said if I didn’t tell you, she would. So there you have it: I’m no one. I’m nothing. I’m less than nothing.”

Castiel just stares at him, stunned.

Dean’s tears are tracing their way down his cheeks despite his best efforts. “I am sorry,” he repeats. “Please believe that.”

He’s said what needed to be said. He doesn’t think he can bear to hear the things Castiel will say to him, the names he’ll hiss at him, so Dean swallows heavily and crosses the room towards the door. He pauses just before leaving. “Goodbye, Castiel.”

“Wait.” Castiel’s voice is rough, and he’s half-risen from his seat, one hand stretched out towards Dean. “Wait.”

Dean doesn’t want to. He isn’t strong enough to face Castiel’s righteous anger. But he owes him the chance to speak his piece, so he slips back into the room and closes the door behind himself once more.

“They paid you to seek my company?” Castiel asks.

It sounds so terrible when he says it. Dean flinches, but he answers honestly. “Yes. Well, I haven’t been paid yet. It was the promised price, though, yes.”

“All in order to hurt me?”

“Yes,” Dean says again.

“How elaborate,” Castiel murmurs. “How ridiculous and petty and unnecessarily dramatic. It’s exactly what Zachariah would do, the fool.”

Dean looks at him, frowning. He sounds more irritated than outraged. 

“Would you have agreed to this scheme if they hadn’t offered you a way to escape a life of--” Castiel swallows. “Prostitution?”

“Of course not,” Dean replies, caught off guard by the question. “I...like to think I am not a cruel person. But apparently I can be, if given the proper incentive.”

“We all can,” Castiel says distantly. Then his gaze focuses on Dean again, and his voice turns quiet. “If you and I had met under other circumstances, would you still be receptive to my advances, do you think?”

This is not at all the conversation Dean expected to be having. He had been prepared for insults, for outrage, for perhaps some hurt covered by angry words and raised voices.

“Yes,” he says. He came here to give Castiel honesty, and he will not diverge from that course now. “Yes, I would.”

Castiel stares at him for a moment longer, those discerning blue eyes searching over Dean’s face, and then he nods. “We should get you some dry things to wear.”

“What?” Dean asks incredulously. 

“What?” Castiel echoes. “Would you prefer to remain damp and shivering?”

“I’m only going to get wet again the moment I step back outside,” Dean points out.

The frown returns to Castiel’s face. “Why would you go back outside?”

“Because you don’t want me here,” Dean says, confused. “Why would you?”

Castiel’s breath catches in his throat. “Of course I want you here,” he murmurs. “I always want you here.”

“Haven’t you heard anything I’ve told you?”

“Yes,” Castiel says evenly. “You’ve told me that you were manipulated and coerced by men more powerful than yourself. That you were given a difficult choice, and that you sought to protect yourself. I told you, Dean, I care for you more than I’ve cared for anyone in a long, long time. You think this changes anything?”

“How could it not!” Dean bursts out. “You don’t know anything about me. You don’t know me at all, Castiel. You only know the part I’ve played.”

A sad smile lingers around Castiel’s lips. “That’s not true,” he says gently. “Perhaps you were not entirely truthful with me. But I didn’t fall for your family history, or for your pretended accent or your borrowed clothes. I fell for the way you stopped to give money to that child we almost hit with the carriage. The way you make Celeste laugh, the way you make me laugh. The look on your face when you watched the theatre performance, like you’d never seen something so wonderful in your whole life. Those things can’t be faked, Dean, and those are the things that are the most basic essence of who you are.”

“You can’t mean that,” Dean protests weakly. “I’m worthless, Castiel. Just a pretty face and a warm body to sink into in the middle of the night. That’s the basic essence of who I am.”

“Oh, Dean,” Castiel murmurs. “I could kill them, all the men who’ve made you think that. It’s not true. Who you are is not what you have done.”

“How can you even stand to look at me,” Dean wonders. “Castiel, I’ve--”

“I don’t care,” Castiel says firmly. “I know. It’s foolish, and sentimental, and probably not a rational reaction. But I don’t care. I only care about you, Dean. And the fact that you’re here at all, telling me the truth so bravely, tells me that you care for me as well.”

“I do,” Dean says. “Of course I do.”

“Then let me get you some dry things to change into,” Castiel offers again, “and we’ll figure out what to do.”

Dean nods helplessly. Castiel gives him a small smile and leaves the room. As soon as he does, Dean’s legs give out on him and he collapses into Castiel’s recently-vacated chair. 

He’s still having difficulty believing he hasn’t been kicked out onto the street. Dean never planned for this eventuality. He doesn’t know how to proceed from this point. 

But Castiel wants to help. Castiel doesn’t hate him. That’s enough to give Dean hope.

When he returns with fresh clothes for Dean, he slips back outside so Dean change in privacy. Dean marvels at his consideration once more as he slips the soft white shirt over his head. He doesn’t bother with the coat, knowing he’ll be more comfortable this way, and then opens the door again to allow Castiel to enter.

“I’ve been thinking,” Castiel says immediately. He takes his usual seat and Dean sits beside him, leaning towards him unconsciously. “Zachariah and Uriel have no leverage anymore, do they? I already know the truth, and I don’t care. What else can they possibly do? Their plan has failed.”

Dean shakes his head. “They won’t be satisfied,” he warns. “They never wanted you to know the truth, they wanted me to continue to accept your advances and then disappear without a trace, leaving you heartbroken. When they heard Celeste knew the truth, they contemplated killing her to prevent her from telling you.”

Castiel’s face goes carefully blank. “They what?”

Dean nods miserably. “They decided to just threaten Gilda instead, knowing Celeste will do anything to keep her safe.”

“Those despicable bastards,” Castiel says under his breath. His voice is low and dangerous. Dean has never seen him like this, cold and hard like a diamond. It’s frightening, but also quite breathtaking.

“But if they find out I’ve told you, it won’t matter. Celeste will be safe,” Dean assures him. 

Castiel’s gaze is sharp. “But what about you?”

Dean winces. He had been hoping Castiel wouldn’t catch on to that part of their problem. 

“Dean,” Castiel says. “Tell me.”

“It’s nothing. I’m sure he was just being dramatic.”

“Why do I not believe you?”

Dean huffs a laugh. “Because you’re very clever.”

“Yes. Now, tell me.”

“He threatened to have me killed if anything went wrong,” Dean mumbles, looking away.

“He didn’t dare.” Castiel’s voice is completely even, and that’s what makes Dean look back at him. He’s gripping the arm of the chair so tightly his hands are turning white. “That will never happen, Dean. I’ll never allow it to happen. I don’t care what I have to do. I’ll find a way to keep you safe.”

It’s everything Dean wants to hear, and yet he still feels he doesn’t deserve Castiel’s protection. This is his mess. If anyone is going to take a risk to keep someone safe, it will be Dean. He will not allow Castiel to jeopardize his life or even his reputation over someone like himself.

“I’ll go to Zachariah in the morning,” Castiel declares. “I know it’s his wounded pride that came up with this scheme. I’ll offer him anything he wants. He’ll see reason eventually, I know it.”

Dean disagrees. He’s quite certain Zachariah is anything but reasonable. “It’s too risky,” he says.

“It’s worth it,” Castiel counters. “Please trust me on this, Dean.”

His shoulders are set in a stubborn line, and he looks at Dean so pleadingly Dean eventually nods. “I do trust you,” he says. “It’s them I don’t trust.”

“Promise me you’ll let me handle this.”

Dean bites his lip. He can’t. He can’t let Castiel be the one to clean up this mess. 

“Promise me, Dean,” Castiel repeats.

What harm will one more lie do? “I promise,” Dean says with a sigh. 

They’ll never be truly safe until Zachariah and Uriel are dealt with, and Dean is far from convinced that Castiel will be able to sway them. If he goes to see Zachariah...he could walk right into a trap. There are many ways to kill a man and make it look like an accident. Dean must not allow that to happen.

He raises his hand to his mouth to cover a yawn, and Castiel’s eyes go soft and fond. “You must be exhausted,” he murmurs. “You’re safe here tonight. I’ve given the servants orders not to let anyone in. And in the morning, I’ll go to Zachariah.”

Dean nods wearily, but his mind is still racing. A plan is slowly forming in his head, but it will be risky. It will require a tricky combination of several factors and several people who Dean would not call entirely reliable, but he thinks, if they all play their parts, it will work. 

It will keep them all safe.

Castiel rises and indicates to Dean he should do the same. “I asked Hannah to prepare a chamber for you when I was fetching your clothes,” he says. “You should get some rest.”

Dean pauses. If his plan fails, there’s a very good chance he’ll be dead by this time tomorrow. He doesn’t want to spend his last night sleeping down the hall from Castiel.

“I thought,” he says quietly, “perhaps I could stay with you.”

Castiel goes suddenly, perfectly still. “With me,” he repeats.

Is the concept so difficult to understand? “Together,” Dean clarifies.

Castiel turns to look at him, stricken. “Dean,” he says. “I would never presume--”

Dean feels the sharp sting of rejection pass through his heart. “Of course,” he mumbles. 

Of course Castiel doesn’t want him anymore. He claims he cares for Dean, and Dean is willing to believe that, considering his behaviour, but of course he doesn’t want Dean anymore. Now that he knows he’s dirty. Damaged. 

He brushes past Castiel and makes his way to the stairs. He thinks he hears Castiel curse behind him, but Dean hurries up the stairs and almost makes it to the chamber he stayed in the last time he was here before Castiel catches up to him.

A gentle hand on his shoulder forces him to turn around and meet Castiel’s gaze. “I think,” Castiel says softly, “you may have misinterpreted my statement.”

“It’s fine,” Dean says, though it’s clearly anything but. “I understand. Why would you want someone like me? I’m not the fresh-faced country boy you pressed against that balcony. I’m just a whore--”

“Stop,” Castiel says through gritted teeth. “Please, Dean, stop saying that.”

“It’s the truth!” Dean shouts. Castiel’s eyes widen, and Dean lowers his voice to a more reasonable volume. “It’s the truth, my lord. I’m just another piece of London’s trash, plucked from the gutters. You don’t know, Castiel, of course you don’t know. You don’t know how many men have had me, how many times I’ve been fucked over the years. I was sixteen when Crowley found me on the streets. I lost count years ago.”

“Sixteen?” Castiel asks gently. “Oh, Dean.”

Dean can’t take the pity in his voice. “Silly of me to think you could still want me,” he says bitterly. “You’re an honourable man, my lord. I know that. You’ll allow me to stay, you’ll offer me kindness, but it will never be anything more than that. Not now that you know the truth, now that--”

His words are cut off by Castiel leaning forward and pressing his lips against Dean’s in the barest of kisses. Dean goes still, his words dying on his lips. He can’t move, can’t return the kiss, can’t do anything at all. 

“I don’t care,” Castiel repeats when he pulls away. “Dean, when I said I didn’t want to presume, it’s exactly that history I was thinking of. I don’t want to be just another client to you. I don’t want you to feel obligated, to feel that you owe me your body in exchange for a bed to sleep in tonight. Don’t you know by know, I would do anything for you? Give anything for you?”

Dean presses a trembling hand to his mouth. Could Castiel truly mean it? He’s looking at Dean like he’s the most important thing in the world, and there’s no trace of dishonesty on his face. 

He swallows thickly. “Cas--” he says, the name getting stuck in his throat once more. “Castiel.” He takes another look at that face, which has become so precious to him over these past few weeks, and his resolve strengthens. “Take me to bed.”

Castiel’s eyes light up, and without warning, he bends and sweeps Dean up into his arms. Dean struggles for a second, protesting, but eventually lets himself relax, laughing. He’s slightly taller than Castiel, but more slender. Castiel bears his weight easily, carrying him down the hall and kicking open the door to his own chamber and depositing Dean gently on the bed. 

He closes the door and moves slowly across the room, his eyes fixed on Dean the entire time. “Hello,” he says quietly.

“Hello,” Dean echoes. He’s trembling slightly, but from anticipation, not from fear. 

Castiel sits beside him on the bed and strokes the back of Dean’s hand with a careful finger. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs. 

Dean looks away, embarrassed, and Castiel makes a small noise of disapproval. He reaches out and cradles Dean’s face between his hands. “It’s true,” he says. “So beautiful.”

He kisses Dean again, more deeply than he did the last time. Dean melts into it with a sigh, allowing Castiel’s weight to bear them back against the mound of pillows at the head of the bed. Castiel never breaks contact, following his movement gracefully until he’s half-sprawled on top of Dean, their lips never parting.

It’s a luxurious feeling, kissing like this. Dean has never indulged in it before. Even when they stole that moment on the balcony, he was aware they could be interrupted at any moment. Here, there’s no one to come between them. There’s only the two of them, in this wide bed that feels like an entire world they have all to themselves.

Eventually, though, he finds himself wanting more. He raises his head slightly, smiling at the disappointed face Castiel makes when he pulls his mouth away. Dean places a gentle hand to the centre of his chest and looks up at him, unable to find the words.

Castiel nods, so Dean thinks he’s made his request quite clear. Castiel sits back on his heels and begins unbuttoning his coat, then eases it over his shoulders and tosses it aside. He looks at Dean again, and Dean nods, so he pulls his thin white shirt over his head and discards it as well.

Dean takes a moment just to admire him, the breadth of his shoulders and the firmness of his chest with its faint dusting of dark hair. His eyes travel slowly down Castiel’s torso to the waistband of his breeches, which cut sharply across the tempting line of his hipbones. 

Castiel just waits, patient under Dean’s gaze. Once he’s looked his fill, Dean slowly brings his hands up to the top of Castiel’s shoulders and strokes them gently downwards over the strong muscles of his back. Castiel shudders under his touch, throwing his head back and exposing his neck, long and lovely like the rest of him. Entranced, Dean sits up so he can press his mouth to the column of tanned flesh, kissing and nibbling. Castiel moans brokenly and tilts his head further to the side, giving Dean better access to his neck and the place where it meets his shoulder. 

Dean has never had this before, someone he wants to touch this way. Someone he truly desires. He wants to make Castiel feel good, yes, but not because it will earn him a greater reward. Simply because it will make Castiel happy.

He’s beginning to feel quite warm, so he pulls away for a moment and quickly removes his own shirt. Castiel’s eyes immediately focus on his bare chest, and Dean feels a burst of self-consciousness that’s quickly erased by the heat with which Castiel gazes at him. It’s not the sharp heat he’s accustomed to seeing in men’s eyes when they look at him, the kind that can burn him. It’s slower and steadier and infinitely more soothing.

Castiel presses a kiss to the centre of Dean’s chest, slowly easing him down so he’s flat on his back on the bed, his body bracketed by Castiel’s as he continues to worship every inch of newly-revealed flesh with aching tenderness. Their new position puts their lower bodies into more direct contact, and Dean can feel Castiel’s erection pressing against his thigh, but it seems Castiel is in no hurry. 

“Tell me how to please you,” he says, looking up at Dean with his head resting on Dean’s stomach. 

Dean runs a gentle hand through his hair. It’s soft beneath his fingers. “I don’t--”

It’s never been about his pleasure. Most times, his body would respond, but Dean didn’t necessarily enjoy it on a deeper level than that. There were a few occasions, however, a few more generous clients, who seemed to take pride in making him break his stoic facade, making him let surprised noises of enjoyment slip past his lips.

“What do you like?” he asks to avoid giving an answer of his own. 

Castiel shrugs, and without a shirt, it’s quite a glorious thing to behold. “Most things,” he says. “I’m happy to continue to kiss you for the rest of the night. Or to slide those trousers down and put my mouth on every inch of you. Or to stay like this, moving against each other until we’re exhausted and spent. Or to take you inside me, or to be inside you.”

Dean makes a low noise, almost a whine. Out of all those truly wonderful ideas, the last is the one that calls to him the loudest. He knows Castiel will make it good for him. 

Summoning his courage, he says, “I want you inside me.”

Castiel doesn’t answer, just kisses him again.

Dean senses that Castiel won’t move things forward without being asked, so he decides he ought to take some initiative. He slips his hand between them and tugs at his breeches, pulling them down over his hips. Once he realizes what Dean is doing, Castiel sits back slightly to allow him better access.

He’s naked in Castiel’s bed, and he isn’t afraid.

Castiel strokes a gentle hand across his thigh, which trembles under his touch. Dean watches with wide eyes as Castiel runs his hands over all his recently unclothed skin, skimming lightly over his sides and his legs and even down to his feet. He squirms slightly, ticklish, and Castiel grins at him, pleased.

“I like seeing you smile,” he says, dropping a kiss to the inside of Dean’s knee. It’s such a strange place to kiss that Dean’s smile widens, and Castiel laughs. As his mouth moves upwards, along the delicate skin of Dean’s inner thigh, his smile vanishes, lost in his quiet noises of pleasure. 

Castiel pauses, his breath warm on Dean’s most sensitive flesh. He looks up at Dean, who nods, and then lowers his head and takes Dean into his mouth.

Dean cries out at the sensation, his head falling back against the pillows. He’s only had this done to him a few times, and never with this much enthusiasm. Castiel’s mouth is warm and wet around him, just enough pressure to make Dean moan. A warm hand gently nudges his legs further apart so Castiel can get a better angle, his head bobbing as he works at Dean with lips and tongue.

“Castiel,” he says, drawing the name out. “Please.”

He isn’t sure what he’s asking for. He only knows he needs more. 

After a few more minutes of exquisite sensations, Castiel pulls back. He licks his lips as though he’s chasing the taste of Dean and gives him a considering look.

“Will you turn over for me, Dean?” he asks, and his voice is low and hoarse. 

Dean ignores the twinge of disappointment that runs through him at those words. He thought maybe-- but it doesn’t matter. He trusts Castiel. He nods and slowly rolls onto his stomach, then flows onto his hands and knees, head hanging loosely between his arms.

He hears Castiel’s startled intake of breath and it’s only then that he remembers he’s never told him about the scars. There aren’t many, and none of them are particularly large, but they’re visible even in the candlelight. Remnants from times men turned violent. 

Castiel leans forward and presses gentle kisses across Dean’s back, focusing on the areas surrounding his scars. He kisses them like they’re beautiful, like they aren’t reminders of all the other people who have touched Dean before him. 

Dean shivers but holds himself still. As Castiel moves lowers, he braces himself for the touch of a finger against his entrance, but the pressure never comes. Instead, he feels the warmth and gentle pressure of Castiel’s mouth pressing against his most intimate place.

Dean gasps, instinctively rocking back into the sensation. No one has ever, ever done this for him before. He thought there was nothing left that could be new to him, but he was wrong. He lets out a broken moan as Castiel’s tongue flicks gently across his hole, so delicately Dean thinks he might weep. 

“Is it good?” Castiel asks, like he can’t read the answer in the noises Dean is making.

“Yes,” Dean sighs. “So good.”

Castiel doesn’t answer, just puts his mouth back against Dean’s entrance and continues to lick at it with increasing speed and pressure until Dean is reduced to a quivering mess beneath him. 

He could come just from this, Dean thinks dazedly. He’s never felt such intense pleasure. The focus with which Castiel applies himself to this task is incredible. It’s overwhelming.

After a few more minutes, Dean finally feels the press of a finger he was expecting, but he’s loose and relaxed from Castiel’s ministrations, and he just sighs around it, accepting it inside his body with ease. Castiel presses a kiss to his inner thigh and gently crooks his finger inside Dean while he licks at his rim.

“More,” Dean manages to say. He’s feeling spoiled, and slightly selfish. He’s completely naked, writhing in pleasure, while Castiel hasn’t even removed his breeches. 

“How could I possibly deny you?” Castiel murmurs against his skin. There’s a brief loss of contact, and Dean looks back over his shoulder to see Castiel removing the last of his clothes, revealing his thickly-muscled thighs and his hard cock, heavy and flushed. 

Castiel leans over to rummage in the desk beside the bed and returns with a small container of oil, which he pours gently over one hand, warming it between his fingers. Dean looks away again as Castiel presses those fingers back inside him, two this time, the fullness making him sigh with contentment.

“You’re so good for me, Dean,” Castiel says. “You’ve given me so much. Your bravery, your honesty, your trust. I seek only to be worthy of it, of you.”

“You are,” Dean says, gasping. “You are. Castiel, you’re everything.”

He feels Castiel lean over his back, gently twisting Dean’s head back so he can kiss him in distraction while he slips a third finger inside him. It aches, but in a satisfying way, a way that promises more pleasure yet to come. Castiel continues to kiss him while he pumps his fingers slowly in and out of Dean’s body until he’s accustomed to the feeling. 

Finally, the desire to have Castiel even closer overwhelms him. “Castiel, please,” he says. “I need you.”

There’s a pause, and then the fingers are slowly withdrawn. Dean groans at the loss of contact, but then he feels a gentle hand on his hip, coaxing him to turn over once more. 

Spread out on his back, Dean blinks up at Castiel, who’s staring down at him with a mixture of awe and tenderness in his eyes. He picks up the oil once more, clearly preparing to slick it over his length, but Dean takes it from him, watching as Castiel’s eyes go wide.

“Let me,” he says. He hasn’t touched Castiel yet, not the way he wants to.

Castiel nods jerkily, his eyes fixed on Dean’s face as Deans pours a small amount of the oil over one hand and carefully wraps it around Castiel’s cock. His blue eyes flutter closed and he lets out a tremulous sigh. Dean strokes him a few more times, enjoying the weight of him in his hand, before Castiel gently pushes him aside.

Dean opens his legs wider, allowing Castiel settle comfortably between them. “You’re sure?” Castiel asks. 

“Yes,” Dean replies. “I want this. I want you.”

They kiss as Castiel pushes inside him. He’s thick, and the fullness aches, but only for a minute before it fades into pleasure. Once he’s completely buried in Dean’s warmth, Castiel pauses, and Dean snaps his hips forwards, prompting him to move. 

It’s never felt like this before. Dean doubts it ever will again. He doesn’t know if this is the only time he may have Castiel like this. There are still too many things that could go wrong, too many ways for this to end in sorrow. He has to commit this to memory while he can: the way Castiel fills him up, the sound of their hearts pounding in perfect time, the feeling of Castiel’s hands as they dance across his skin. 

“Dean,” Castiel groans as he thrusts into him. He’s coming undone so beautifully above Dean, his eyes glassy and his breathing heavy.

Dean wraps his legs around his waist, causing a slight shift in the angle of Castiel’s thrusts that makes them both moan in pleasure. Dean isn’t going to last much longer, he knows. He’s been on the verge of climax since Castiel started worshipping him with his tongue. 

“I need to see you,” Castiel gasps. “Please, Dean, let me see you give in.”

How could Dean do anything but obey? He wraps one hand around his erection, pumping himself in time with Castiel’s thrusts, which are becoming more erratic as he approaches his own orgasm.

“So good,” Castiel repeats. “Dean. Please, sweetheart.”

It’s the unexpected endearment that tips Dean over the edge, and he throws his head back with a low groan as he comes all over his fist, his climax shuddering through his entire body in coursing waves of pleasure. Castiel watches with wide eyes as Dean strokes himself through it, finally pulling away when he’s shaking and oversensitive.

“Dean,” Castiel says again, “can I--”

“Yes,” Dean sighs, feeling boneless and practically weightless after his release. “I want you to come inside me.”

Castiel chokes back a noise that sounds suspiciously like a growl. He thrusts forward a few more times, and then with a loud cry, Dean feels him spill inside him.

They remain pressed together for a few moments, their heartbeats slowing, until Castiel places a regretful kiss on Dean’s lips and pulls away and out of him. Dean feels...content. Satisfied, rather than used. 

Castiel returns with a soft piece of cloth, using it to gently wipe Dean’s body and then his own clean. He keeps constant contact with Dean as he does, and his touch is soothing and comforting all at once. Dean’s eyes feel heavy, and after Castiel tosses the cloth aside, he immediately pulls Dean into his arms. Dean rests his head on Castiel’s chest, feeling safe and secure.

He wishes it could last. 

In the morning, everything will be different. Dean doesn’t yet know in what way. But this is their last bit of peace before the oncoming storm, and he will relish it while he can.

Castiel kisses him softly on the forehead. “Are you alright?” he asks.

Dean tilts his head up to meet his eyes. “I’m happy,” he says quietly. And it’s true. Even as he worries about what will come next, in this moment, he is happy.

“As am I.” Castiel kisses him again, sweetly, then closes his eyes. “Rest, Dean.”

Only for a little while. Dean can’t sleep for long. But he’s warm in Castiel’s embrace, and it’s enough.

For now, it’s enough.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The most dramatic conclusion.

Dean wakes in the early hours of the morning. Castiel is asleep beside him, his face calm in repose, dark eyelashes resting on his cheeks. Dean is so tempted to reach out, to trace over the lines of that beloved face, but he manages to resist. He can’t risk waking him.

He slips out of the bed and dresses as quietly as he can in the plain dark clothes from the night before. Castiel rolls over, and Dean freezes with his hand on the door, but Castiel doesn’t wake. Dean breathes a sigh of relief and lets himself out of the room with one last longing look over his shoulder. 

He creeps quietly down the stairs and out of the house. Fortunately, none of the servants, some of whom are surely awake even at this hour, notice his departure. 

The streets are quiet, the few others who pass by Dean minding their own business and paying him no heed. He walks quickly through the city as it slowly wakes around him, and for once, Dean looks at London with some measure of affection. If he took a right turn here, he would eventually arrive at Hyde Park, where Castiel took him on their first outing. If he continued on this street, he would find the museum. It’s incredible, really, how a few positive experiences have changed Dean’s attitude towards the city.

He hopes he lives long enough to enjoy this newfound appreciation of London.

His first stop is at Bow Street. The constable behind the desk gives him a wary glance when he enters, but is polite enough when he asks Dean his business.

“I’d like to speak to Constable Henriksen, please,” Dean says, equally polite. He has a healthy respect for the Runners and what they do, but years of living on the streets has also made him wary of them. 

Fortunately, Victor is available. His eyes widen when he sees Dean standing there, and he hurriedly ushers Dean out of the main room and into a smaller one down the hall.

“What in God’s name are you doing here?” he says, his voice low. 

Dean takes a deep breath and prays he hasn’t misjudged Victor. “I need your help.”

Victor’s face softens. “What’s the trouble?” he asks.

He was right after all. Victor has been a frequent visitor to Dean’s room at the brothel for over a year, and of all the men who come and go from there, he’s Dean’s favourite. He’s never hurt Dean, and more than that, he actually seems to care that Dean finds some small amount of pleasure in their time together. Dean isn’t stupid, he knows Victor isn’t harboring romantic feelings for him, but he was counting on him being honourable enough to help him, and it looks as though he was correct.

So he tells him everything.

“They have to be stopped,” he concludes. “It’s not just about me, Victor. It’s about Castiel, and Celeste, and Gilda, all the people they’ve threatened to hurt. It’s about Alfie, who could be in danger if Zachariah ever discovers how he helped me.”

“That’s quite the story,” Victor says slowly. “I believe you, Dean. I don’t see why you would make this up. But I can’t do anything without proof.”

Dean nods. He had been expecting this. 

“I have a plan,” he says.

Once he’s explained it, Victor just stares at him. “That’s a terrible plan,” he says.

“It’s the only one I have,” Dean says desperately. “I know them, Victor, I know how their minds work. They’re so set on their ridiculous revenge that they’ll stop at nothing to get it. We can’t let them hurt anyone.”

“You’re right about that,” Victor mutters. He paces around the room, lost in thought, and eventually stops in front of Dean with a deep sigh. “I’m going to regret this,” he mutters under his breath. 

“You’ll do it, then?”

“Yes.”

Dean smiles sharply. “Thank you, Victor.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Victor warns. “You’re still in danger, Dean.”

“I know,” Dean replies. “But for the first time in my life, I feel like I may not be for much longer.”

A rare smile appears on Victor’s face. “Good luck,” he says softly.

Dean lets himself out with a nod to the constable behind the desk, feeling strangely calm as he leaves. The first part of his plan is complete. Now for the hard part.

The further he gets from Bow Street, the more his old wariness and discomfort returns. This part of the city looks and feels even worse now that he’s been away from it for so long. It’s busier here, more people on the streets, shouting and laughing and making Dean anxious. Their voices grate on his ears and his heart rate increases, as does his pace. The sooner he gets to his destination, the better. 

Stopping in front of the brothel is difficult. Every instinct in Dean screams at him to keep walking, to not look back, to run away as fast as he can. He swore to himself he would never come back, and yet, here he is. He tells himself it’s necessary, that he wouldn’t do this if he had any other choice. He’s doing it for Castiel, for Celeste, for Gilda. For himself. He squares his shoulders and pushes open the door. 

He’s not surprised to find Crowley awake at this hour. Dean isn’t even sure the man sleeps at all. He does looks gratifyingly surprised to see Dean, though. It always feels like a victory to Dean to catch him off-guard.

“Now, now,” Crowley says. “What do we have here. Our old friend Dean, come back for a visit?”

“Something like that,” Dean says flatly. He drops a heavy purse onto the table at Crowley’s side. “Have you already given away my old room?”

Crowley raises an inquisitive brow. “No,” he says. “But if you have this much money, what do you want it back for?”

Dean shrugs. “Nostalgia’s sake.”

“You’re lying.” Crowley picks up the purse and peers inside, then puts it back, satisfied. “But at this price, I don’t really care.”

“Good. I’m expecting some guests. Let them know I’m back in my old room.”

“Right back at it, then,” Crowley sneers. “Your little attempt at mingling with the lords and ladies failed, did it?”

Dean ignores him and climbs the creaky staircase back to his old room. Nothing has changed, and he hates how familiar it feels. Hates the way it feels like coming home. He wishes there was anywhere else he could do this, anywhere else he could spend what might be the last hours of his life.

He sits down on the bed and waits.

There’s a creaking on the staircase about half an hour later, and he tenses, but the footsteps turn aside before reaching his door. He relaxes slightly, but stills holds himself upright, ready to leap to his feet at the first sign of someone entering the room.

It takes almost another hour, but finally Dean hears the noise he’s been both dreading and anticipating: loud footsteps on the stairs, harsh breathing, muttered curses. He rises to his feet and clenches his trembling hands.

Uriel is the first to enter the room, and Dean flinches at the murderous rage on his face but stands his ground. Zachariah follows behind him, his expression colder, more composed, but no less frightening.

“I told you he would be here,” Zachariah mutters. “Ran right back to where he belongs.”

Uriel shakes his head slowly. “You should have run while you had the chance,” he tells Dean. “You’ve ruined everything.” He darts forward with impressive speed and punches Dean directly on the jaw.

Dean staggers back, his hand coming up to cradle his face, but he just laughs bitterly. 

“How?” he asks. “I’m going to disappear, just like you wanted.”

“I don’t believe you,” Uriel snarls. He looks ready to advance on Dean again, but Zachariah reaches out and holds him back. “You already told Castiel the truth, didn’t you? Told him you were nothing but a whore, and he kicked you back out onto the street where you belong.”

Considering how much they hate him, Dean thinks hysterically, it’s almost amusing how little Zachariah and Uriel seem to know Castiel. He would never be so unkind. 

“And now he’s just angry and disappointed, but he’ll move on,” Zachariah sighs, pinching his nose as though this is all such an inconvenience to him. “Or maybe you think you’ll go back to him someday. Maybe you think he’ll forgive you, and he’ll rescue you from this stinking place.”

“It’s not going to happen,” Uriel adds. “Neither of you will live long enough for that.”

Dean feels the blood drain from his face. “Castiel,” he stutters. “Is he--”

“He’s alive,” Zachariah says. “For now.”

“We came to take care of you first.” Uriel draws a wicked looking blade from his coat pocket, and Dean stumbles back a step, his knees hitting the edge of the bed. “We’ll kill him after we’re done with you, and then you can be together forever.”

Dean doesn’t even have time to scream before the blade is flashing down towards him, but he’s quick and light on his feet and well-accustomed to defending himself from sudden violence. His arm flies up to protect himself and the knife scrapes along his forearm, cutting a deep gash into his flesh.

The door bursts open, and Zachariah turns, only to be thrown to the ground by Victor as he charges past to wrestle the weapon away from Uriel. Dean manages to land a few blows on Uriel’s hand, weakening his grip on the knife, and it falls from his hand just as Victor pins him to the ground, his arms held behind his back. 

Another constable follows, watching Zachariah with wary eyes. “Don’t try to run, my lord,” he advises. 

“Attempted murder here, plus a plot to kill one of London’s most respected gentlemen,” Victor says in disgust. “The two of you sicken me.”

“It was the boy’s idea!” Zachariah exclaims as he’s dragged out the door. “It’s all his fault.”

“I doubt that,” Victor replies coldly. A third constable joins them and roughly drags Uriel to his feet. He doesn’t say anything as he’s led away, but the glare he sends in Dean’s direction is expressive enough. 

Dean just winks at him.

Victor steps forward and rips a piece of cloth from the sheets to wrap around the cut on Dean’s forearm. “Ouch,” Dean protests.

“You’re lucky,” Victor informs him. “He could have easily killed you.”

“I knew you would be fast enough,” Dean counters.

Victor scoffs, but looks somewhat impressed. “I cannot believe this worked,” he says. 

Dean is just as surprised as he is, really. He knew it was an outlandish plan, but then, so was Zachariah’s entire plot, right from the time he asked Dean to participate in it. Having the constables hide in the secret corridor behind the wall of Dean’s room where they could hear Zachariah and Uriel admit their own guilt and then burst out at the opportune moment seemed only fitting. A ridiculous end to a ridiculous plot.

“I’ve never been so grateful to have that corridor,” Dean mutters. 

Victor finishes wrapping the makeshift bandage around Dean’s arm. “I hate to have to tell you this,” he says, “but Zachariah and Uriel will be taken in for questioning. We’ll need you to come back with us and make your statement as well.”

Dean sighs. The adrenaline from the encounter is slowly fading, and his weariness is overtaking him. “Can we make it quick?” he asks. 

“As quick as we can,” Victor promises.

Dean allows Victor to help him down the stairs. Crowley watches with interest as they make their way towards the door.

“Leaving so soon?” he asks.

“This time, I’m not coming back,” Dean says. It’s over. Zachariah and Uriel will be dealt with like the criminals they are, and the people Dean cares about will be safe. And, perhaps most shockingly, he’s not only alive, but free.

He did it.

Victor ushers him into a carriage that seems to appear out of nowhere and instructs the driver to take them to Bow Street. Dean rests his head against the seat and tries to keep himself from falling asleep. The turmoil of the past day and a half has taken a toll on him, and he wants nothing more than to fall into Castiel’s arms and forget all the sorrow and strife that brought them to this point.

Only a little while longer, and then he can do exactly that.

He draws a number of curious looks as Victor escorts him into the building for the second time that day, but Dean doesn’t care. He just wants to get this done. Fortunately, he sees nothing of Zachariah and Uriel. He hopes never to lay eyes on them again.

Victor settles himself behind his desk and gestures to Dean to take the seat across from him. There’s a young, nervous-looking man who follows them into Victor’s office and sits quietly in the corner, prepared to take notes as Dean speaks. Dean tries to forget that he’s there and speaks directly to Victor instead. He already told him his story earlier in the day. He can do it again. 

It’s different, however, when it’s a matter of public record. Victor interrupts him constantly to ask for clarification or further details. It makes Dean nervous, wondering if his involvement in the plot will have consequences for him, but Victor assures him it won’t happen, so he’s as honest as possible. If anything he says could help ensure that Zachariah and Uriel are never free to plot against he and Castiel again, he’d tell Victor his entire life story without flinching. 

The entire process takes over two hours, by his estimate. He’s exhausted by the end of it, his voice hoarse. Victor dismisses the secretary and comes to stand beside Dean, resting a hand on his shoulder.

“You did well,” he says. “Thank you for your bravery, and for your honesty.”

Dean just nods tiredly. “Can I leave now?”

“Yes, but let us take you. I don’t think you’re in any fit condition to be wandering the streets after what you’ve been through today.”

If nothing else, accepting the offer will get him back to Castiel sooner. Dean nods again and follows Victor back out to the carriage waiting in the street.

“Where to?” Victor asks.

“Take me to Castiel, please,” Dean says. Victor gives him a small smile and leans out the window.

“To Lord Castiel Milton’s residence,” he instructs the driver.

Dean feels strangely nervous when they roll to a halt in front of Castiel’s house. He swallows and looks over at Victor, who’s watching him with an unreadable expression on his face.

“Thank you,” Dean says eventually. It’s an odd relationship, to be sure. Victor used to pay him for his body and now he’s most likely the only reason Dean is still alive. He doesn’t really know what to say to him.

“I wish you well, Dean,” Victor replies. “You don’t need to thank me for doing my job.”

“That’s not all I’m thanking you for,” Dean responds, and this time he sees a flash of understanding cross Victor’s face.

With a last nod, he leaves the carriage and climbs the steps up to Castiel’s house. 

He knocks lightly, and the door swings open almost immediately, revealing Hannah, whose normally composed face is etched with lines of worry.

“My lord!” she exclaims. “Oh, it’s good to see you.”

She guides Dean inside and closes the door behind her. Dean looks around and feels a current of worry pass through him. Uriel said they would come for Castiel later, but what if--

The sound of footsteps on the stairs makes him look up. Castiel is tearing down towards him, his eyes wild, his clothing a mess. He pauses at the foot of the stairs, one hand gripping the banister, and just stares.

“Dean,” he breathes, a look of relief crossing his face.

“Hello, my lord,” Dean manages. Out of the corner of his eyes, he notes Hannah’s departure, but he can’t focus on anything other than Castiel.

“You came back,” Castiel says, striding towards Dean. “I was so worried, Dean, it’s been hours…”

Dean’s well aware of how long it has been since he slipped out of Castiel’s bed. It feels like a lifetime ago. But before he can reply, Castiel’s lips are on his, their mouths pressing together in a desperate kiss.

Castiel buries his hands in Dean’s hair, walking them backwards until Dean’s back hits the wall. Dean gasps and melts against him, wrapping his arms around Castiel’s back, delighting in the shifting of his muscles under his hands. Castiel is solid and warm and _alive_ , and Dean never wants to let him go, never wants to be apart from him again.

“I was so worried,” Castiel repeats, kissing his way across Dean’s cheek and over the line of his jaw, his hands frantically working at the buttons of Dean’s dark coat. “God, Dean.”

Dean arches into Castiel’s touch as his jacket falls to the floor and he slides his hands up under the thinner material of Dean’s shirt, roving hungrily over his chest. Dean instinctively rocks forward, and Castiel groans, mouthing at the place where Dean’s neck meets his shoulder as he thrusts forward, his hard cock pressing against Dean’s.

“Don’t ever frighten me like that again,” Castiel begs. “I couldn’t stand it, not knowing where you were or what had happened to you.”

“I won’t,” Dean manages to say. “I swear.”

He’s never seen this side of Castiel before, this lack of restraint. All his careful politeness has come unraveled to reveal the passion and desperation below the surface, and it’s beautiful to witness. 

Castiel slips his hand into Dean’s trousers, drawing out his hard length, and strokes him gently a few times, making Dean tip his head back against the wall with a groan. Castiel’s hand is soft, just the faintest hint of callouses, and he twists his wrist just slightly, increasing Dean’s pleasure.

After a few more moments, Castiel presses forward again and frees his own erection from his trousers, then reaches back down between them and takes them both in hand. His movements are eased by the fluid leaking from both of their cocks, and the feeling of them rubbing together in Castiel’s large hand is nearly overwhelming.

“Don’t leave me again,” Castiel pants, his breath unsteady and warm against the side of Dean’s neck. 

“I could never,” Dean murmurs. “I need you, Castiel.”

Castiel makes a choked noise at his words, the movement of his hand losing its rhythm, and then he’s coming, a shudder running through his entire body. Dean looks down between their bodies at the place where they’re pressed together and follows him, grateful for the wall behind his back holding him upright.

It takes a few moments for their breathing to steady, and Castiel presses sweet kisses all over Dean’s face, murmuring endearments and silly little things in Dean’s ear all the while. Dean just relaxes and allows himself to be held, luxuriating in the feeling of Castiel’s body against his.

Eventually, though, he pushes him away. “We’re a mess,” he says with a small laugh.

Castiel starts to agree, a rueful smile on his lips, but then he looks down and catches sight of the bandage on Dean’s arm. 

“You’re hurt!” Castiel exclaims, his expression immediately turning guilty. “I should have noticed earlier, God, Dean, I’m so sorry--”

“It’s fine,” Dean says soothingly. “Why don’t we get ourselves cleaned up, and I’ll tell you everything.”

Castiel nods and leads Dean up the stairs to his room, guiding him into a chair and fetching a warm cloth to wipe them both down with, then helping Dean into a soft robe, tucking it neatly around him.

His hands are gentle as he tilts Dean’s face towards the light to better examine the bruise forming on his jaw. Dean leans into the touch, and Castiel’s arms come around him, kneeling on the floor in front of Dean’s chair. 

This. This is what it should feel like to come home. Warmth, and comfort, and security, and steadfast, enduring love. 

Dean takes a few more moments to compose himself, then draws back. Castiel stays where he is, looking up at Dean with a concerned frown.

“You did something foolish, didn’t you,” he murmurs.

Dean laughs. “Perhaps,” he admits. “But it worked.”

“What did you do?” Castiel asks, searching Dean’s face. 

“To put it simply, I had Zachariah and Uriel arrested,” Dean informs him, perhaps a touch smug about it. “I don’t think we’ll need to worry about them anytime soon.”

“That’s wonderful news,” Castiel says slowly, “but how did you manage that?”

Dean sighs. He should have known Castiel wouldn’t be satisfied with half-answers. 

“Please don’t be angry with me,” he pleads. “I know I promised I wouldn’t do anything, but that’s not just the way I am, Castiel. I couldn’t sit by and do nothing.”

“Did you not trust that I would keep you safe?” Castiel’s voice is small and sad, and it breaks Dean’s heart.

“I’m unaccustomed to trusting others,” he says gently. “I do trust you, Castiel. I do. But you wanted to go and talk to Zachariah like a reasonable being. He isn’t one. We had to play by their rules, and you are far too honourable to sully yourself that way.”

Castiel sighs deeply. “Perhaps you’re right,” he admits. “But please. Tell me what you did.”

So Dean tells him. He tells him how the idea first came to him, how he knew he needed proof of Uriel and Zachariah’s actions beyond the word of someone who was, until recently, in their employ. How he knows Victor, and why he trusts him. To his credit, Castiel doesn’t even blink at the notion that one of Dean’s former lovers was so instrumental to his plan’s success.

He tells him how he hid Victor and the other constables in the secret corridor behind his room. He doesn’t tell Castiel what that corridor is normally used for, but he can tell by the look on his face that he guesses. He tells him how Uriel hit him, and Castiel traces ever-so-gently over the bruise on Dean’s jaw. He tells him how scared he was when he thought they might have already gotten to Castiel, how relieved he was when he learned he could still save him.

How Uriel came at him with the knife, how Victor burst through the door like a hero from a grand adventure story, how Zachariah and Uriel were dragged away in chains. 

“And that’s all,” he finally concludes. “It’s done.”

Castiel’s face wears an expression that could best be described as complete and total awe. “I understand why you felt you couldn’t tell me what you were planning,” he says. “I would have tried to stop you. Dean, that was...reckless, and foolish, and incredibly, intimidatingly brave of you. You could have been killed.”

“I know.” Dean looks at him and gives a wry smile. “But I had to protect you. All of you. From a situation I helped bring to this point.”

“And now that it’s done?” Castiel asks carefully. He sits back slightly, putting more distance between them.

Dean looks at him, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“I just wondered,” Castiel replies, looking down, “if now that it’s done, you still dream of your freedom. Somewhere far away from here.”

He’d let Dean go if that’s what he wanted. Dean knows that. He’d probably give him money, send him on his way, tell him to be safe and happy. Castiel would do that, if he thought it’s what Dean truly wanted.

But it isn’t.

He reaches out and places his hands on Castiel’s shoulders. Broad, firm, strong shoulders. Castiel raises his head and looks at Dean, the light of hope shining in his blue eyes. 

“I want to stay,” Dean tells him. There’s no more lies, no more pretending. There’s only them. Nothing and no one else matters.

“I want to stay,” he repeats. “I want to learn how your voice sounds first thing in the morning, and how you look in the afternoon sunlight. I want to know more about your childhood, about how you and Celeste came to be friends. I want--” he falters for a moment, then presses on. “I want to tell you my story. The real one, the one that brought me to you.”

“I’d be honoured,” Castiel whispers. “To have you here for as long as you wish. To hear your story. To be part of its next chapter.”

Dean moves one hand from Castiel’s shoulder to his cheek, and Castiel closes his eyes, leaning forward into his touch. Dean steadies himself and moves closer until their lips just barely brush against each other, a hushed conversation taking place completely without words.

Castiel sighs into it, and then he’s pulling Dean closer until there’s no space left between them, kissing him with all the passion he usually keeps so carefully under control. Dean loses track of how long they stay like that, wrapped in each other’s arms, occasionally pausing to murmur sweet nothings into each others’ ears before pressing their lips together once more. 

Dean has never felt so safe, so cared for. He’s also never felt so proud of himself. He took a risk today, an enormous one, and his gamble paid off. This morning, he was willing to die if it meant securing Castiel, Celeste, and Gilda’s safety. 

But now, Dean is secure in the knowledge that he gets to _live_. To live a life of his own choosing. To wake up each morning unafraid, to greet every new day with gratitude and with joy.

And with Castiel’s smiling face on the pillow beside him.

It’s quite possibly the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard. That he should get such an ending to a story that’s been filled with misery for so long.

“You look happy,” Castiel murmurs, stroking Dean’s cheek with a gentle finger. “What are you thinking about?”

Dean smiles at him and rests his forehead against Castiel’s. “The future,” he says quietly.

“And how does the future look?” Castiel asks, amused.

“Brighter than the stars in the sky,” Dean tells him, and leans in for another kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed this story, I would recommend bookmarking it or subscribing to it, because it’s possible I already have some ideas for a sequel that may make an appearance at some point in the future.


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